front door clicked open. My husband didn’t even look guilty. He just said, calm as weather, “She’s moving in. I want a divorce.” Behind him, her smile bloomed—soft, smug, permanent—like my home was already hers. Something inside me went quiet. I picked up the pen and signed. Then I looked up and whispered, “Congratulations.” Months later, they saw me again. His face went paper-white. I tilted my head, smiled, and asked, “Miss me?”
Three months postpartum, I was still bleeding when the front door clicked open. My husband didn’t even look guilty. He just said, calm as weather, “She’s moving in. I want a divorce.” Behind him, her smile bloomed—soft, smug, permanent—like my home was already hers. Something inside me went quiet. I picked up the pen and signed. Then I looked up and whispered, “Congratulations.” Months later, they saw me again. His face went paper-white. I tilted my head, smiled, and asked, “Miss me?”
May be an image of baby and text that says ‘ミ Ah’That night, I was on the couch with our baby, Lily, sleeping against my chest. The living room smelled like sour milk and lavender diaper cream. I heard Ethan’s key turn like it had a personal grudge against the lock. He walked in wearing the same work boots he never cleaned, and behind him stood a blonde woman in a fitted coat, holding a designer bag like it was a trophy.
