My heels echoed across the marble floor in a rhythm I had practiced in my mind. Not to appear confident—but to stay in control.
I crossed my arms, not for comfort, but to keep my pulse from betraying me.
The receptionist gave a polite, rehearsed smile and gestured toward a narrow hallway, as if this were just another routine appointment. As if I weren’t walking toward the very room where my marriage had been dismantled and my dignity quietly traded like collateral.
Still, I walked forward.
Not for reconciliation.
Not for explanations.
I had come to close something that had lingered far too long.
And somewhere deep inside, I already knew one thing with certainty:
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