Another note slides out. His handwriting is shakier now—less certain. More fragile.
If you want a divorce... I'm ready.
Let's divorce.
Divorce.
The word hangs in the air between us, suspended in the dim golden light of the hallway. It should feel like victory.
This is what I wanted. What I fought for.
Freedom. Escape. Release.
The chance to reclaim a life that was stolen from me.
But now, the word sits in my chest like something foreign. Like a key that no longer fits the lock it was made for.
I should feel relieved.
I should feel lighter.
Instead, I feel something strange and unfamiliar—a tightness in my chest, a slow unraveling of something I didn't realize was holding me together.
The note slips from my fingers and lands softly on the polished floor.
He's ready to divorce me.
