My daughter, Sophie, rested peacefully in my arms, wrapped in a cream-colored blanket my older sister had bought after she was born. Her tiny face was soft with sleep, her lips slightly parted, her fingers curled against my blouse. She had no idea that before she was even two weeks old, her parents were sitting across from each other to end a marriage that had already died long before the papers were filed.
I had not dressed to look fragile.
I wore a plain white blouse, loose black pants, and comfortable shoes because my body was still healing from childbirth. My hair was pulled back without effort. There was no makeup on my tired face, no jewelry chosen to remind anyone of what I used to be.
I looked exhausted because I was.
But I was not broken.
Not anymore.
As I stepped farther inside, Natalie Parker’s attorney glanced up from his notes and muttered, “Well, bringing the baby was probably a smart move.”
Then he saw my expression and immediately stopped smiling.
