Daniel blinked.

He had expected tears.

Begging.

Maybe even a scene in the middle of the terminal.

Instead, I calmly reached into the diaper bag.

“Before we talk about the house,” I said, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

A woman in a navy blazer walked toward us from a nearby seating area.

She carried a leather briefcase and wore an airport security badge around her neck.

Daniel frowned.

“Who is that?”

“My attorney.”

His smile faltered.

“You brought a lawyer to the airport?”

“I wasn’t sure what kind of husband I’d be welcoming home.”

The woman beside him quietly slipped her hand from his arm.

My attorney handed Daniel a large envelope.

“Mr. Brooks, you’ve been difficult to reach over the past four months.”

He stared at it.

“What’s this?”

“The divorce papers you requested.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“I haven’t requested anything.”

“No,” I said softly. “But after you stopped answering my calls, stopped sending money, and ignored the birth of your daughters, I decided to prepare.”

He laughed nervously.

“You can’t seriously think you’re taking everything.”

“I don’t.”

“I know exactly what belongs to each of us.”

He opened the envelope.

His expression changed page by page.

“What is this?”

“The mortgage records.”

He looked confused.

“The house…”

“…is only in my name,” I finished.

He looked up.

“That’s impossible.”

“It isn’t.”

“When we bought it, your credit score prevented you from qualifying for the loan. Remember?”

He said nothing.

“I qualified on my own.”

The woman beside him looked back and forth between us.

“You told me the house was yours.”

Daniel ignored her.

I continued.

“You also forgot something else.”

I pulled another document from the folder.

“During the cruise, you never contributed a single dollar toward your daughters’ medical bills.”