That night, I didn’t sleep. Lily woke every two hours, and I fed her in the dark while listening to Ethan and Madison move around the house like they were touring a rental. At one point, I heard Madison say, “This room would make a great office for me,” and Ethan replied, “Do whatever you want, babe.”
Babe. A word he hadn’t used on me in years.
At 6 a.m., I emailed a family law attorney named Karen Price whose reviews basically screamed: She doesn’t play nice and neither should you. I attached what I had and wrote, I signed last night. But there’s more. Please call me.
Karen called at 9:12 a.m. “Claire,” she said, brisk and clear. “You’re not the first woman to sign papers in shock. We can work with this. But I need to know—did he pressure you? Were you medicated? Were you postpartum?”
“I’m still bleeding,” I said flatly.
Karen exhaled. “Okay. Listen carefully. In most states, signing doesn’t mean you’re done. It means the process begins. And if those documents hide assets or misrepresent finances, that’s leverage.”
Leverage. The word warmed my spine.
Jenna arrived with coffee and fury. We packed quietly, efficiently. I took only what was mine: Lily’s things, my clothes, my laptop, the lockbox. Ethan watched from the doorway with Madison behind him, arms crossed like she was supervising an eviction.
“You’re really leaving?” Ethan asked, almost offended.
I looked at him and said, “You wanted the house. Enjoy it.”
