I was nine months pregnant when the divorce papers arrived.
Not during a heated confrontation.
Not in the midst of an explosive argument.
They were delivered by courier.
The doorbell rang on a gray, featureless Thursday morning, as I trudged down the corridor, one hand pressed against my lower back and the other leaning against the wall to keep my balance, because my center of gravity had completely disappeared.
When I opened the door, a young delivery man smiled politely and showed me a clipboard.
“Signature required.”
His voice was cheerful, as if he were handing me a sweater I’d ordered online.
I signed.
Then I closed the door and opened the envelope.
Inside were the divorce papers.
My husband, Grant Ellis, had filed the application three days earlier.
At the top of the first page was a short handwritten note in his unmistakable slanted handwriting:
I won’t be coming back. Don’t make things harder.
For a long moment I stood still in the hall.
The baby was moving heavily inside my belly, pressing against my ribs.
Nine months pregnant.
And my husband had decided that this was the perfect time to delete me.
My phone vibrated before I even finished reading the documents.
A message from Grant.
See you at Westbridge Courthouse at 2:00 PM. We’ll finalize everything.
No excuses.
No explanation.
Instructions only.
As if I were just another task on his afternoon schedule.
The courthouse smelled of worn carpet and cleaning chemicals.
Grant was already there when I arrived.
He looked… rested.
Impeccable dark blue suit.
Hair styled to perfection.
The relaxed confidence people display when they think they’ve already won.
Next to him stood a woman in a cream-colored dress and high-heeled shoes.
Her manicured hand rested on his arm as if it were naturally there.
Tessa Monroe.
