Not our children.
Not the son and daughter waiting for us at school.
Her baby.
The attorney cleared his throat awkwardly and pushed another folder toward Preston. “Mr. Hale, there are still a few financial disclosures requiring review before—”
Preston signed the papers without reading them, tossed the pen onto the table, and leaned back with the careless confidence of a man convinced consequences belonged to other people.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” he replied. “She keeps the kids if she wants them. Frankly, that simplifies my schedule.”
His younger sister, Vanessa, who had insisted on attending the hearing as if my divorce were entertainment, folded her arms and smirked openly.“Honestly, this is better for everyone,” she said. “Preston finally gets a clean start.”
One of his cousins standing near the coffee station gave a low laugh.
“And maybe this time he’ll finally get the son he always wanted.”
I sat there quietly, absorbing every word with a calmness that surprised even me, because pain eventually reaches a strange limit where it stops feeling sharp and starts feeling distant, almost hollow, like a storm that exhausted itself overnight.
