My ex-husband, Grant, stood beside her in his charcoal suit, wearing the satisfied smile of a man who believed he had finally escaped the worst mistake of his life.
“Well,” Patricia announced loudly, making sure Grant’s sisters and cousins heard every word, “at least our family house is safe now.” Family
They all laughed.
I stood there alone with my purse, my divorce papers, and the final decree still fresh from the clerk’s stamp. My attorney had warned me not to give them a reaction. Patricia wanted tears. Grant wanted me to beg. His family wanted one final scene they could turn into dinner gossip, with me as the bitter ex-wife who had lost everything.
So I stayed silent.
Patricia moved closer, her perfume sharp and heavy. “You should be thankful Grant allowed you to stay as long as he did, Allison. Some women simply don’t understand when they’ve been replaced.”
Grant looked away.
He did not defend me.
That silence told me more than eight years of marriage ever had.
