The Night a Bowl of Hot Soup Ended My Marriage—and Began My Freedom – Page 3

Helen slammed her hand on the table so hard the silver rattled.

“Lies! My son would never—”

I slid the next folder toward her. Photographs. Medical records. Saved messages. Transcribed statements.

Helen’s protest caught in her throat.

Claire leaned back in her chair, eyes wide but unmistakably curious, as if watching a play she never expected to turn in my favor.

“You think this little pile of papers will do anything?” Andrew scoffed, but there was panic creeping into his voice.

“Not at all,” I said. “The pile that matters is this one.”

I lifted another sheet—the one he truly never expected to see.