That word still stung.
He kept everything that mattered—the house, the lake cabin his father had “gifted” us but never legally shared, and the company shares I helped build from the ground up. Years of bookkeeping, payroll, and running operations meant nothing on paper. All I walked away with was a small payout, temporary child support, and my old SUV.
His lawyer called it “documented ownership.”
Funny how documentation only seems to matter when one person has been planning the ending longer than the other.
As I stepped out of the courthouse, I saw them gathered in the parking lot.
Grant loosened his tie. Sabrina slipped her arm through his. His mother kissed his cheek. His brother laughed loudly, celebrating like it was the beginning of a new life.
Grant looked at me—not with guilt, not even discomfort. Just relief.
He lifted his car keys like a toast.
