Part 4 — On the morning after the wedding, my husband threw a greasy cloth in my face and called me a servant, but after my calm smile, his mother turned pale

“He said that the account holder had already agreed to transfer the money…”

Nino’s words were still hanging in the air when Brandon looked toward the door.

“That is a lie,” he said.

For the first time there was no command in his voice. Only panic.

Nino called the police. Brenda sank into the armchair and rubbed her hands faster, as if she were trying to remove something from her fingers.

“Melanie, think,” she told me. “We are one family.”

“Family would not forge my name at the bank.”

“Brandon was simply afraid that you would leave him.”

“I did not leave him. He himself told me to go away forever.”

Brandon took out his phone and called someone.

“Lawyer, come right now. No, I do not care where you are. You have to be here.”

A second call came to the phone several minutes later. Brandon listened, while his eyes slowly changed.

“What do you mean, you no longer represent me?”

Silence.

“I was not asking for the money. I only wanted access to my wife’s account.”

More silence.

“She is my wife! I have the right!”

He ended the call and stared at the wall.

His lawyer refused representation as soon as Nino sent him the documents concerning the forged signature and the recording in which Brandon spoke in advance about our money on the evening of the wedding.

The police arrived forty minutes later. The wet soles of their shoes left marks on the office’s dark floor. It had started raining outside.

The officer asked Brandon for his documents.

“Where is your friend Lucas?” he asked.

“I do not know.”

“The bank cameras show that he had a file received from your email this morning.”

“I sent nothing.”

Nino played the recording.

The sound from the bank camera was poor, but the words were still understandable.

“Melanie agrees. We are husband and wife. We only want to transfer the money temporarily.”

This was Lucas’s voice.

The officer looked at Brandon.

“Is this your friend?”

Brandon lowered his head.

For the first time I heard through someone else’s mouth the lie they had been preparing against me all day. It was a strange feeling. As if someone had taken the scene of my life and shown it to me backwards.

I was not a thief.

I was not a runaway wife who had taken money from the family.

I was a woman who had defended her name.

Brenda was still trying to regain control.

“We did not ask Lucas to forge anything,” she said.

Brandon quickly raised his head.

“Mother!”

“You said that Melanie would obey us anyway.”

Silence fell in the room.

An expression appeared on Brandon’s face as if he had heard for the first time from his own mother how what he had said sounded.

“I just…” he began.

“Just what?” I asked.

He could not find an answer.

The officer told Brandon that until the investigation was completed, any attempt connected with my account would have criminal consequences. Lucas was found that same evening in front of his apartment. The bank employees had already handed everything over to the investigators.

Brandon and Brenda were not arrested immediately, but a case was opened against them. A temporary protection order was imposed on the account. The money remained untouched.

I still did not feel victorious.

That night I returned to Jessica. The suitcase was still standing where I had left it the previous evening. In the corner, on the hanger, hung my small copper-colored key-shaped brooch. My mother had given it to me when I graduated from university. I had worn it over my heart at the wedding, and then put it in the suitcase.

The brooch was covered from end to end with the greasy stain that had appeared when the cloth touched it. No matter how many times I cleaned it, I could not remove one small dark spot.

That night I looked at the spot for a long time.

Three weeks later, the first divorce hearing took place in court. Brandon came alone. Brenda did not accompany him. He saw me at the courtroom door and stopped.

“Melanie, please listen to me for five minutes.”

“Listen to the judge.”

“My mother ruined everything.”

“Your mother did not throw the cloth at me.”

“I was angry then.”

“Anger is an explanation, not an excuse.”

He took one step forward in front of me.

“We could start over.”

“I have already started over.”

The court finally annulled the marriage. Since no joint property existed and the money had been transferred in my name, Brandon was denied a claim to his share. The case concerning the forgery of documents and the attempt to deceive the bank continued separately.

Several months later I rented a small apartment in a quiet district of the city. I put a wooden table under the window. In the morning I made coffee for myself and no longer waited for anyone to shout how many minutes I had to finish a task.

I set aside part of the money for education. I began an internship at a publishing house, where I corrected people’s stories and sometimes wrote as well. For the first time in a long time, I did the work I truly loved.

My mother came every week. My father, each time, checked the condition of the lock, as if my apartment were a small fortress.

One evening my seven-year-old nephew, Leo, attached a drawing to the refrigerator. In the drawing a woman stood in front of an open door, holding a small suitcase in her hand.

“Is this you?” I asked.

“Yes. You are coming home.”

“Where had I been?”

Leo shrugged.

“Where they treated you badly.”

This answer comforted me more than the court’s decision.

In the first week of winter, snow visited the city rarely, but still did. In the morning I opened the window and cold air entered. There was one plate in the kitchen. Only one cup. Only one spoon.

And that was enough.

That same day I received a letter from Brandon. It was written by hand, as if the return of old times could be achieved with several lines.

“Forgive me. I understood everything. If you ever speak to me, just once.”

I held the letter in my hand for a long time. Then I wrote a reply.

“I forgive you, but I am not coming back. You must fix your life yourself. Mine is already peaceful.”

I sent the letter and blocked the number again.

That evening I cleaned the copper-colored key-shaped brooch. The dark stain was still visible, but now I was no longer trying to hide it. The small scratch reminded me not of humiliation, but of the moment when I picked up my suitcase and walked toward the door.

I pinned the brooch to my coat. It was snowing outside. Under the street lamps, the flakes fell silently.

I locked the door.

And this time the key remained only in my hand.