The second envelope was from an international bank that had been gobbling up smaller banks since the beginning of the most recent recession. Inside I found a bank card with Dawn Kingston-Zhang written across the front, along with some checkbooks that bore an address I didn’t recognize.

Elite college graduate here, but it took me a few frowning moments and another trip outside to solve the mini-mystery. Yep. The slat of wood next to the front door bore the same address number as on the one written across my new checks.

More whoas. I had no idea you could open a bank account without an in-person visit. Much less for someone else, who never agreed to change her name. The list of questions for Victor was piling up. But he was a no-show on May 27th, as well as May 28th.

The following week a cleaning lady showed up, a stern Polish woman who announced, “Sonia speak no English!” when I tried to introduce myself. Sonia spent the entire day deep-cleaning the house from top to bottom. And the only other words she spoke to me were “See you next week!” when she bustled out the door with her huge plastic tote filled with cleaning supplies.

I bought my own bottle of Windex after that, just so I’d never have to live through the embarrassment of having an unsmiling Polish woman wipe my sex handprints off the mirror next time.

But Victor didn’t show up that week either, or the week after that. Before I knew it, June had come and gone without a peep from the man who was now insisting on calling himself my owner. Cultural sensitivity didn’t seem to be a thing in New Victor’s world. Actually, sensitivity of any kind didn’t seem to be a thing in New Victor’s world.

By July, I’d run out of On Demand episodes of Rap Star Wives to watch and had acquired a pretty impressive day drinking habit. I had to do something other than sitting around waiting for Victor to show up. So instead of cracking open another bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, I looked up an address on the iPhone Victor had given me and grabbed my Mount Holyoke tote.

“Where are you going?” Yaron asked, jumping out of the car when I came charging out of the house.

“To the library,” I answered, hitting the gate’s inside button. “It’s within walking, so I don’t need a ride.”

“But—” Yaron started to say after me.

“Back in an hour or two!” I called out before he could finish his protest. And I waved over my shoulder as I slipped out of the gate.