I have Parkinson’s disease. Early stage. I still drive my silver Buick to the grocery store on Tuesday mornings.

At 3:30 PM that afternoon, a Downers Grove police cruiser sat parked at the curb outside Brian and Megan’s four-bedroom colonial home on Maple Avenue.

The late November wind was biting, tearing the last brittle oak leaves from the branches overhead and swirling them across the manicured front lawn.

Brian, Sarah Jenkins, and I sat in Brian’s pickup truck across the street, watching the front door.

A white moving van stood idling in the driveway.

Two uniformed police officers stood on the front porch, arms crossed over their tactical vests, watching with bored professional detachment as Megan, her mother, and her sister hauled cardboard wardrobe boxes out through the double front doors.

Megan looked hollowed out.

The designer wool coat was gone, replaced by an old fleece pullover and sweatpants. Her hair was pulled back in a messy, greasy bun, her eyes swollen and bloodshot from hours of crying. Every time she carried a box down the concrete steps toward the van, her mother, Evelyn, trailed behind her, waving her arms frantically, gesturing at the house, screaming at the silent officers who refused to engage with her.

"She’s lucky Thornton didn't hold her in direct criminal contempt right on the spot," Sarah said from the passenger seat, closing her leather folio. "If Harris had pushed that hearing for five more minutes, Megan would be sitting in the county jail right now awaiting a bond hearing."

Brian didn't answer. He sat with his hands resting on the steering wheel, watching the woman he had loved for twelve years carry her life out of their home in cardboard boxes.

There was no joy on his face. No smug satisfaction. Only the deep, echoing exhaustion of a man who had survived a shipwreck and was now looking at the floating debris.

"Are you going to be okay in that house alone, Brian?" I asked gently from the backseat.

Brian looked into the rearview mirror, meeting my eyes. "It won't be alone, Mom. Eli and I are going to paint his room blue this weekend. He’s been asking for a blue room for two years, but Megan said it didn't match the house's aesthetic."

He opened the truck door, stepped out into the freezing wind, and walked across the street.

I watched through the windshield as Brian approached the driveway.

When Megan saw him, she stopped on the bottom step of the porch, clutching a plastic storage bin filled with shoes. For a long, fragile second, the two of them stood five feet apart in the gray November light.

I couldn't hear what was said.

I saw Megan’s lips move. I saw the desperate, pleading gesture of her hands—the same fragile, synthetic routine she had used for years to twist him around her little finger. She took a step toward him, her shoulders slumping, looking like a little girl who wanted to be forgiven for breaking a toy.

Brian didn't step back, but he didn't lean forward either.

He stood like an iron post in the freezing wind. He spoke four short sentences. His face remained calm, steady, and immovable.

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, flat brass key, and handed it to the police officer standing on the porch.

Megan dropped her head. She turned around, climbed into the passenger seat of her mother’s Mercedes, and slammed the door.

Ten minutes later, the moving van and the silver Mercedes pulled away from the curb, their taillights disappearing down Maple Avenue into the gathering dusk.

Brian walked back across the street, climbing into the truck and pulling the door shut against the chill.

"What did she say to you?" I asked quietly.

Brian turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, the heater blowing warm air against our frozen faces.

"She asked me if we could try counseling," Brian said, staring straight ahead through the windshield. "She said she did it because she was terrified of losing me to your illness. She said she felt like she was competing with a ghost."

"And what did you say?"