Ethan didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even lower his voice. He looked at me the way you look at a bill you don’t feel like paying and said, calm as weather, “She’s moving in. I want a divorce.”
The woman stepped forward like she belonged there. She smiled—soft, smug, permanent—like my home had already been renamed in her head. “Hi,” she said, chirpy, like we were meeting at a brunch. “I’m Madison.”
My pulse pounded so hard I thought it might wake Lily. “You’re bringing her here,” I said, forcing the words out through a throat that felt stitched shut. “While I’m still… bleeding?”
Ethan shrugged. “Don’t be dramatic, Claire. It’s been three months.”
Three months. As if my body hadn’t been ripped open. As if my nights weren’t measured in screams I swallowed so I wouldn’t scare the baby.
I stared at them both, waiting for the punchline. Madison’s eyes flicked down to Lily, then back to me. “She’s cute,” she said. “But you look… tired.”
That did it. Something inside me didn’t crack—it went quiet. Like a breaker flipped.
Ethan tossed a manila envelope onto the coffee table. “I already filed. Sign tonight. I’m not doing a long fight.”
