On my birthday, my husband dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over me at 5 in the morning and shouted, “My mom, my sister, and the kids will be here in half an hour.” I didn't argue. I got dressed, pulled out his suitcase, and picked up my phone. After four years of putting up with his family, he still had no idea what document I had secretly prepared.

Thursday was moving day.

Garrett left for work at 8:00 AM. His car hadn’t even left the parking garage before I was dragging three massive, heavy-duty suitcases from the hall closet into the guest bedroom.

I moved with the cold, mechanical efficiency of a soldier breaking down camp.

I opened his closet and began ripping clothes off the hangers. Suits, ties, casual wear, gym clothes—I shoved them all into the first suitcase. I didn't bother folding anything. In the bathroom, I swept his toothbrush, his expensive cologne, and his shaving kit into a trash bag and tossed it into the second suitcase.

Into the third suitcase went his golf shoes, his electronics, his framed photos of his mother, and the ridiculous personalized whiskey decanter Tabitha had bought him for Christmas.

Within two hours, every trace of Garrett Davis had been systematically erased from my apartment.

I zipped the suitcases shut. They were heavy, but I managed to drag them into the front entryway, lining them up perfectly against the wall, right beside the front door. I threw a large decorative blanket over them so he wouldn't notice them when he came home that night.

That evening, I made dinner. We ate in complete silence. He was practically vibrating with nervous anticipation for tomorrow's ambush. I was perfectly calm. The trap was set. The bait was taken.