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 walk around her.

Outside, the rain has slowed to a fine mist. Your mother waits under the overhang, umbrella in hand, eyes searching your face before anything else. When she sees the look there, something between relief and astonishment moves through her.

“Well?” she asks.

You exhale. “He’s not as rich as he pretended. Not as smart either.”

Your mother blinks, then laughs. A quick, fierce sound. “That’s my girl.”

But the day is not finished.

By late afternoon, Damian is already calling.

You let the first three calls die. The fourth comes while you are home on your sofa with your shoes off, a heating pad behind your back, and chamomile tea cooling on the side table. Your mother is in the kitchen rattling pans louder than necessary because righteous anger has always made her domestic.

When the phone lights up again, you answer.

“What?”

Damian exhales sharply, as if relieved the line opened at all. “We need to talk.”

“We just did. In front of a judge.”

“Not like that. Privately.”