“He’s doing better than your conscience,” I said.
Silence.
“What are you talking about?”
“I found the yellow folder.”
For one second, Thomas stopped breathing.
“I was going to tell you,” he said.
“Before or after you stole my apartment?”
“Don’t be dramatic. I only needed a temporary guarantee to save my company.”
“You forged my signature.”
“We’re married,” he snapped. “Assets are shared.”
“My home is not your emergency fund.”
“My agency was collapsing,” he said. “If I didn’t get that loan, I would lose everything.”
“So you decided losing me was acceptable.”
“My mother had nowhere else to go,” he argued. “I promised her I’d find a place.”
“And you chose my home?”
“I knew you’d say no.”
“Because the answer was no.”
“That’s why I had to do it this way,” he shouted. “You’re selfish with your success.”
That was when I understood.
Thomas wasn’t sorry.
