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 sign two days later.

Not because Damian deserves mercy. Not because money replaces trust. Not because a house or trust fund or acknowledgment can reverse the hours you spent crying in the shower so he would not hear, or the lonely lunches during pregnancy when he was buying another woman furniture with stolen cash.

You sign because closure is not always about maximum punishment.

Sometimes it is about taking the cleanest exit with your child in your arms.

By spring, you move into the house.

Not the downtown loft. Never that. The real house. The one you and Damian bought in the first hopeful years, with the maple tree out front and the uneven back deck and the nursery window that catches gold light at five in the afternoon. He had expected to keep it, perhaps even imagined Rebecca there someday, elegant in your kitchen, laughing in your doorway, inhabiting the shell of a life she thought she’d won.

Instead, you repaint the bedroom yourself.