My husband walked out of the courthouse with his hands in his pockets, smiling like he had just claimed the world. I followed behind with nothing but an old leather bag, a black dress, and a smile people often mistake for defeat.
“Thank you, Victor,” I said.
He paused on the marble steps. Next to him, his lover, Celeste, lifted her diamond-studded chin and laughed softly.
“Why?” Victor asked, loud enough for his lawyer to hear.
“To make it easy.”
His smile tightened. He thought I meant the divorce—the house, the cars, the investments, the lake house, even the art collection I had carefully chosen. He believed I was surrendering everything, including the humiliation of watching him bring Celeste into court dressed in a suit worth more than my first salary.
But I hadn’t left anything behind.
Not even regret.
The judge looked at me twice, as if expecting tears. Victor leaned closer before signing and whispered, “You should have fought harder, Maya.”
Still, I signed.
My boyfriend said “I need space—don’t contact me for a while.” I replied: “Take all the time you need.”
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