You glance toward the entryway table where the divorce papers still sit in a neat cream envelope.
Signed yesterday.
Stamped yesterday.
Final yesterday.
And apparently already violated by the simple act of you refusing to keep financing the woman who called you vulgar in your own dining room while wearing shoes you bought.
The pounding rattles the frame.
From the hallway, a neighbor’s door opens, then another. You hear slippers on tile, hushed voices, the soft electricity of people sensing drama before they know the plot. Teresa, of course, only grows louder with an audience.
“She stole from this family for years and now she wants revenge!” Teresa shouts. “Open the door, coward!”
Something in you goes very quiet.
There it is. The old script. The one where they strike first and loudest so no one asks better questions. The one where dignity becomes whatever they say it is, and the woman who paid, tolerated, forgave, and kept things running is somehow recast as bitter the minute she stops bleeding on command.
