But standing there in front of my home, seeing my name and my private pain turned into neighborhood gossip, something inside me cracked.
“What the hell…” I muttered, walking closer in disbelief.
The words on the car blurred for a moment, not because I was crying, but because rage has a way of making the world shake at the edges.
One of my neighbors shook his head. “Happened about an hour ago. She didn’t even try to hide it.”
I turned to him slowly. “You saw her?”
He nodded, grimacing. “Jessica. She pulled up, got out with spray paint cans in a grocery bag, and just went at it. I thought about stepping in, but she was yelling to herself. I didn’t think it was safe.”
Of course, she had not tried to hide it.
That was Jessica when she was hurt. She wanted witnesses. She wanted the world to know she had been wronged, even if the story had to bend until it broke.
I just stood there, staring at the damage, feeling a mix of anger and exhaustion.
Not shock, exactly. Maybe that was the saddest part. Somewhere deep down, I had known Jessica was capable of one final strike. I had just hoped the divorce had taken all the fight out of her the way it had taken it out of me.
I pulled out my phone, took photos, and called my lawyer.
He answered on the third ring.
“Chace?”
“She crossed a line,” I said. “This is vandalism.”
There was a pause, then his voice dropped into that calm, careful tone lawyers use when they know things are about to get worse before they get better.
“Document everything,” he replied calmly. “We’ll handle it.”
So I did.
I photographed the car from every angle. The front door. The siding. The garage. The cans she had tossed near the hedges like trophies.
My hands stayed steady, but my chest burned.
After the photos, I found old rags in the garage and started scrubbing at the driver’s side window. The paint smeared before it lifted. My neighbors slowly drifted back into their homes, though I could still feel curtains moving.
I had not even finished cleaning up when my phone rang.
Her name flashed on the screen.
Jessica.
For a moment, I stared at it, remembering all the times I used to smile when that name appeared. Back when we were softer people. Back when I believed love could survive anything as long as two people kept choosing it.
I picked up, already bracing myself.
Before I could say anything, she screamed into the phone,
“How did you do this? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble I’m in right now?!”
For a second, I thought I had misheard her.
I stood beside my half-scrubbed car, one hand still wrapped around a dirty rag, staring at the orange paint smeared across the window.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
Jessica let out a sharp, panicked laugh.
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