The courthouse smelled faintly of disinfectant and despair. I stood there in a faded blue thrift-store dress, clutching my late mother’s worn leather purse like it was the only thing keeping me upright. Across the table, my ex-husband, Mark, smirked as he signed the divorce papers — each stroke of his pen slicing through twelve years of my life.
Beside him sat his new fiancée — a vision of glossy perfection, all polished nails and designer silk. She whispered something into his ear that made him chuckle before turning to me.
