After fourteen hours at work, I returned to find my suitcase, clothes, laptop bag, three pairs of shoes, confidential work files, and my grandparents’ framed photo scattered across the twenty-ninth-floor hallway of Cloudview Towers. My key no longer fit the new silver lock, installed sometime between 8 a.m. and 10:15 p.m. Michael had changed the locks on the condo I legally owned. Rather than pound on the door or shout, I called the police.
“Cloudview Towers, Unit 2902, Chicago,” I told the dispatcher.
She asked whether I lived there.
“Yes.”
Whether my name was on the lease.
“There is no lease. I own the property.”
“Is anyone currently inside?”
“My husband.”
“And he changed the locks?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have proof of ownership?”
“Yes,” I said. “The condo was purchased before my marriage. The recorded deed is in my name only.”
The door opened, revealing Michael barefoot, calm, and wearing the gray lounge set I’d given him for Christmas. Then a woman called from inside.
