And I allowed my husband, Trent Walker, to believe I was simply “doing well” in consulting. He liked that version of me. It made him feel superior.
That evening, I came home early from a medical appointment, hospital wristband still on my arm. My hands carried the faint scent of antiseptic and exhaustion. All I wanted was a shower and silence.
Instead, I found Trent lounging in the living room, bourbon in hand, a manila envelope resting on the coffee table like a trophy.
He glanced at my wristband and smirked.
“Hey,” he said with deliberate cruelty, “you unstable mess.”
I stopped cold.
He tapped the envelope. “I’ve already filed for divorce. Be out of my house by tomorrow.”
Something inside me didn’t shatter—it sharpened.
“Tomorrow?” I repeated.
“It’s my property,” he said casually. “My name’s on the deed. You don’t contribute. You’re just dead weight.”
