The morning of our divorce, my husband walked in with his mistress on his arm—both dressed like they’d already claimed the life they thought they stole from me.

You sit in the passenger seat outside the courthouse with one hand resting over the hard curve of your eight-month belly and the other braced against the leather as if that might steady the rest of you. Rain slides down the windshield in silver threads, blurring the stone steps and columns beyond into something cold and official. The whole building looks like it was designed for endings.

Your mother glances at you from behind the wheel, fingers locked around it so tightly her knuckles have gone pale. “You can still let me come in,” she says. “You do not have to do this by yourself.”

But you turn toward her with the calm you have been saving for this exact morning. “I’m not by myself, Mom,” you murmur. Then you lower your eyes to your stomach and let your palm move in one slow circle. “I haven’t been by myself in months.”

The truth in that sentence lands heavier than either of you says out loud.

Before your mother can answer, your phone vibrates in your lap. A text from your attorney lights the screen. I’m inside. Everything is ready exactly as discussed. Trust the timing. You stare at the message for a second longer than necessary, then lock the phone and tuck it into your coat pocket.