I didn’t need to see them to feel their presence.
The air carried the scent of polished marble and quiet authority—the kind of atmosphere built by people who had never needed to ask for mercy. Everything about the place suggested that emotions were unwelcome here, something to be folded away and hidden like a damp umbrella.
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.
