**Part 2 — The Records, the Court, and the Truth**
The next morning, I woke to the smell of chicken soup and rice.
Mom had added fresh vegetables and kept the broth light because she knew my stomach had been unsettled.
Dad was reading the newspaper when I came downstairs.
He folded it.
“Eat first.”
I sat down.
“Then I’m taking you to a lawyer.”
I looked up.
“You already found one?”
“I called an old colleague. His daughter practices family law.”
He poured warm water into a glass.
“You are pregnant. Do not sign anything because you’re upset. Understand exactly what you’re agreeing to.”
My father had always been a man of few words.
Years earlier, when I boarded a flight for New York to marry Michael, Dad had said only:
“If you ever can’t take it anymore, come home.”
At twenty-something, I thought those words meant he did not believe in my marriage.
Now I understood.
He had not been closing a door.
He had been promising to leave one open.
After breakfast, I checked my phone.
Three missed calls from Michael.
Five messages from Jessica.
One from Carol.
Jessica accused me of being selfish.
She said I had run back to my parents over a simple disagreement.
She said I had deliberately created trouble by suddenly refusing Tony’s tuition.
Carol’s message was calmer.
That made it worse.
“A wife should know how to endure difficult moments. A family should not be torn apart over money, especially with a baby coming. Think about the stress this is creating for everyone.”
Everyone.
I read the word twice.
Apparently, I still did not qualify.
The old Althia would have answered.
She would have written paragraphs.
She would have apologized for hurting people who had just hurt her.
Instead, I locked the phone.
Around nine that morning, a courier delivered an envelope from New York.
Michael’s name was on it.
Inside was a proposed separation agreement and waiver.
The more I read, the colder I became.
It asked me to confirm that I had voluntarily left the apartment.
It proposed that I waive claims involving marital property.
It included no request for support for me.
It said money previously spent during the marriage would not be disputed.
Regarding our unborn child, there was one vague sentence saying the parties would address the issue later.
Michael had moved quickly.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, he had said “divorce” at the dinner table as though it were an impulsive thought.
Now a legal document was sitting in my parents’ kitchen.
Dad read it.
His mouth tightened.
Mom put her water glass down harder than usual.
“What does he think you are?”
That afternoon, we met Attorney Rebecca Davis.
She was in her forties, small in stature, precise in manner, with the kind of attention that made you feel she noticed every word you used.
She read the proposed agreement twice.
“Do not sign this.”
I swallowed.
“He said he would let me go peacefully.”
“This document is peaceful only for him.”
She tapped the pages.
“You should not waive rights before we know exactly what property exists, how it was acquired, what you contributed, and what arrangements will eventually be necessary for your child.”
“I don’t want a war.”
“You don’t need one.”
Her voice softened.
“But avoiding conflict does not require surrendering everything.”
I looked down.
“I just want to be finished with him.”
“I understand. But child support, once applicable, is not a matter of personal pride. It exists for the child. And as for finances, we need records before anyone tells you what you do or do not deserve.”
I opened my bag.
Then I placed a flash drive and a thick folder on her desk.
Attorney Davis looked at me.
“What is this?”
“Three years of records.”
Receipts for Tony’s tuition.
Insurance payments I had covered for Jessica.
Monthly transfers to Carol.
Groceries.
Apartment repairs.
Medical expenses.
Screenshots of messages in which Jessica asked to borrow money.
Bank records.
I had saved everything after the first time Jessica called me a freeloader.
Attorney Davis slowly flipped through the pages.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Three years.”
“You were planning a divorce?”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I kept thinking that one day Michael might ask what actually happened. I wanted to be able to prove I wasn’t what they said I was.”
She looked at me for several seconds.
“Then we use these records for clarity, not revenge.”
That sentence mattered.
I did not want revenge.
I wanted reality documented somewhere outside the family dining room.
When I left her office, Michael called.
I declined.
He called again.
Then a message appeared.
“What are we doing about Tony’s school payment? The administration sent a notice to my office. This is embarrassing.”
I stood beneath a row of trees outside the building and read it twice.
Then I answered:
“Tony is Jessica’s son.”
Another message.
“You’ve always handled his tuition.”
“I did it because I considered him family.”
I paused.
“That was goodwill, Michael. It was never my legal or moral obligation.”
Then:
“From now on, Jessica and you can handle it.”
He did not answer immediately.
Perhaps he was finally calculating.
Tuition.
Insurance.
Groceries.
Emergency money.
Years of small transfers he barely noticed because I always handled them quietly.
That night, Mom sat beside me on the bed.
She smoothed my hair as she had when I was a child.
“Althia, I’m not afraid of you being divorced.”
I looked at her.
“I’m afraid you’ll keep suffering because you’re worried about what people will say.”
I rested my head against her shoulder.
For the first time in years, I did not feel alone.
Michael could be angry in New York.
Jessica could complain.
Carol could call relatives.
None of it changed the fact that my parents were downstairs, my baby was growing, and my life had not ended because one marriage had failed.
I lay awake that night studying a crack in the ceiling that had been there since high school.
My phone vibrated.
Michael.
Then again.
Finally, a message.
“There’s no reason to make this bigger than it is. We can talk.”
I almost laughed.
For years, whenever Michael said we should talk, talking meant I explained and he eventually asked me to compromise.
Now that I had stopped asking to be heard, he suddenly wanted a conversation.
I turned off my phone.
My hand rested over my stomach.
“Mom isn’t taking you back into that house,” I whispered.
Attorney Davis and I met again the next day.
She had reviewed the records.
The total stunned me.
“More than forty thousand dollars from accounts traceable to money you had before the marriage,” she said.
I stared at the spreadsheet.
Forty thousand.
I had never added it up.
Tony’s tuition.
Carol’s treatments and household expenses.
Jessica’s insurance.
Repairs.
Family groceries.
Emergency transfers.
Each payment had felt manageable when it happened.
Together, they formed the financial history of my marriage.
I remembered Tony starting first grade.
Jessica cried because she could not make the first school payment.
I sent it.
Carol once complained about persistent back pain and wanted treatment.
I helped.
When Michael said we should accelerate the mortgage and save more of his salary, I became even more reluctant to spend money on myself.
Every act had seemed like something a wife did for family.
Because I never counted, they eventually assumed there was nothing to count.
That afternoon, Michael called again.
This time, I answered.
“Where are you?”
“My parents’ house.”
“I need to talk about Tony’s school.”
Of course.
Not the baby.
Not the divorce.
Tony’s school.
“Can you do it one last time?” he asked. “You always handled it. Jessica can’t suddenly find fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Michael, in seven years, did you ever ask where Tony’s tuition came from?”
Silence.
“You knew I handled it. Did you ever ask which account paid it?”
“I assumed it was family money.”
“Exactly.”
I took a slow breath.
“You assumed.”
He said nothing.
“When Jessica called me a freeloader, you stayed silent.”
“Althia—”
“When your mother called me wasteful, you stayed silent.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“When I finally said I was spending my own money, you asked for a divorce.”
Silence again.
I continued.
“You say Tony’s tuition is a family matter. I was supposedly part of that family too. Why was my dignity never a family matter?”
He had no answer.
“Tony is your nephew. His education is not my responsibility anymore.”
I ended the call.
My hands trembled slightly afterward.
But my mind did not.
There is a particular kind of calm that arrives after you finally say something you have rehearsed silently for years.
That afternoon, Mom took me to a supermarket.
She inspected milk labels.
She chose vegetables carefully.
She found loose pajamas and insisted I needed more comfortable clothes.
“Are you staying here?” she asked while comparing two cartons of eggs.
“Yes.”
“For good?”
“I’ll have the baby here.”
Mom nodded.
She did not celebrate.
She did not pressure me.
She simply put the eggs in the cart.
That was how she loved me—through ordinary actions.
That evening, Dad called me into the living room.
He placed an old-fashioned passbook savings account booklet in front of me.
“What’s this?”
“Your mother and I opened it years ago.”
“Dad—”
“We planned to give it to you around the time you got married. You refused help.”
“I still have money.”
“This is not only for you now.”
He pushed it toward me.
“It’s for your child. Your mother and I are getting older. Take the cushion while we’re still here to give it.”
My eyes filled.
I had lost my marriage.
But sitting there with that small bankbook between my hands, I realized how inaccurate it was to say I had lost everything.
I still had parents.
I had a baby.
And, slowly, I was recovering myself.
That night an unfamiliar number sent me a message.
It was Jessica.
“You left without even telling me. That was too much.”
Then:
“You think divorce means you won? You’re still connected to this family.”
I turned off the screen.
Some people continue pulling on the rope long after you have dropped your end.
This time, I did not pick it back up.
The next days were unexpectedly quiet.
No dramatic confrontation.
No one appeared at my parents’ house.
No screaming in the driveway.
No spectacle.
Just silence.
That silence taught me something too.
A family can fall apart without one explosive moment.
Sometimes it dissolves because one person finally stops carrying what everyone else refuses to hold.
I settled into the rhythms of my childhood home.
In the mornings, Mom and I bought vegetables and fish.
In the afternoons, I helped her cook.
In the evenings, I read pregnancy books and made lists for the baby.
My stomach slowly began to change.
Every time I passed a mirror, I noticed the slight curve.
The baby knew nothing about lawyers or tuition bills.
Nothing about Carol.
Nothing about Jessica.
Nothing about the word divorce.
That child depended entirely on me.
And somehow that made difficult decisions simpler.
Then another envelope from New York arrived.
This one was thicker.
Michael had hired counsel.
The new proposal contained more detailed language and warned that his side might file counterclaims if I made what they considered unreasonable financial demands or delayed the divorce.
Mom read part of it.
“He’s trying to frighten you.”
Dad folded the papers.
“Then we follow the law carefully.”
Attorney Davis agreed.
“Pressure only works if it makes you surrender before the facts are examined.”
“I don’t want years of litigation.”
“Neither do I. But fast and fair are not always the same thing.”
“What do we do?”
“We answer formally. We document your financial contribution. We preserve all issues involving the child. And we stop negotiating through family pressure.”
For most of my marriage, I had reacted.
Jessica complained; I explained.
Carol criticized; I adjusted.
Michael withdrew; I tried harder.
This was the first time I was taking deliberate action rather than waiting for someone else to decide what happened to me.
“Okay,” I said. “Do it.”
Two days later, our response was filed.
Attorney Davis requested dissolution of the marriage, an equitable review of property accumulated during the marriage, proper accounting of documented contributions, and appropriate arrangements regarding the baby after birth.
When I walked down the courthouse steps that day, the air felt different.
Not easier.
More real.
This was no longer a family argument trapped behind an apartment door.
It was now a legal dispute where records mattered more than whoever spoke loudest at dinner.
Michael called that afternoon.
“You filed?”
“Yes.”
“Althia, this has gone too far.”
“What part?”
“Taking family matters into court.”
“You sent me an agreement asking me to give up nearly everything before I had even spoken to a lawyer.”
“That was supposed to make things easier.”
“For whom?”
Silence.
Finally, he said, “I told you we could talk.”
“The moment you said divorce, Michael, this stopped being something I could survive by agreeing with you.”
I ended the call.
That time my hands did not shake.
As legal notices began arriving, Michael’s relatives started calling.
Some advised patience.
Some said I had made too much of one sentence spoken during dinner.
One relative told me I was damaging Michael’s reputation.
I listened.
I did not argue.
For years, other people’s opinion of my husband had been treated as more important than my experience of being his wife.
I was finished with that arrangement.
One evening, Mom sat beside me with a glass of warm milk.
“Are you afraid?”
I considered the question.
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“I regret how long it took me to understand.”
She rubbed my back gently.
“At least you understood.”
I looked at her.
“Some people spend a lifetime refusing to.”
That night I slept more deeply than I had in months.
A preliminary court conference came first.
Dad drove me.
Before I stepped out of the car, he said, “Stay calm.”
Attorney Davis met me inside.
Michael arrived with his lawyer.
Jessica and Carol were there as well.
Michael looked tired.
When he sat across from me, he studied my face.
“You’ve lost weight.”
I did not answer.
Some words arrive too late to mean what they once might have meant.
The discussion began formally.
Michael’s side argued that because he had earned most of the income during the marriage, my request for a meaningful share of marital assets was excessive.
Attorney Davis responded that a marriage could not be reduced to salary alone and that the court would consider the actual record, including financial and nonfinancial contributions.
When I was asked my position, I answered simply.
“I’m not asking for anything Michael owned before our marriage. I’m asking that what was accumulated during the marriage be reviewed fairly.”
Jessica could not contain herself.
“You stayed home. Now you want half of everything?”
The judge immediately instructed her not to interrupt.
Jessica lowered her voice, but not her hostility.
She leaned toward me.
“You think anyone is going to want you after this, with a baby?”
I looked at her.
“I can take care of myself.”
Michael frowned.
“Althia, don’t talk like that.”
I almost smiled.
For seven years he had listened to Jessica talk to me however she pleased.
Now he objected because my answer made him uncomfortable.
Then the issue of the unborn child came up.
Michael hesitated.
“We can discuss that later.”
I shook my head.
“We don’t have to decide everything today. But the child’s rights are not something I’m waiving.”
Jessica gave a bitter laugh.
“You talk as though you’re one hundred percent sure Michael is the father.”
The room went completely still.
I turned toward her.
“Be very careful, Jessica.”
Michael looked at his sister.
For once, his voice was firm.
“That’s enough.”
Years earlier, those two words might have changed something.
Now they changed nothing.
The conference ended without agreement.
The case would continue.
In the hallway, Michael called after me.
“Althia.”
I stopped.
“I want to talk.”
We moved to a quieter section near the windows.
“Do you really want this decided in court?”
“It already is.”
He exhaled.
“I didn’t think things would turn out like this.”
“How did you think they would turn out?”
He looked away.
“Maybe we can forget the money. Separate amicably.”
I stared at him.
“I’ve been forgetting the money for seven years.”
I did not raise my voice.
I did not need to.
I turned and walked away.
Dad was waiting outside.
“How did it go?”
“I didn’t back down.”
He opened the passenger door.
“That sounds like it went fine.”
The failed conference moved everything into a colder phase.
Documents.
Deadlines.
Evidence.
Scheduled appearances.
For the first time, I understood how different a marriage looks when stripped of emotion and reduced to paper.
While waiting for the next stage, my daily life became almost ordinary again.
I walked every morning because my doctor recommended gentle exercise.
Sometimes Mom came with me.
She talked about neighbors, grocery prices, and things I had done as a child.
Those simple conversations returned pieces of me that New York had gradually buried.
Then Michael’s aunt called.
“I don’t want to interfere,” she began, which usually meant exactly the opposite, “but I heard you took Michael to court.”
“I filed through my attorney.”
“Husband and wife problems should stay inside the family.”
I closed my eyes.
“I tried that for seven years.”
“You’re a woman, Althia. Sometimes women have to be more tolerant. Michael has a temper, but he isn’t a bad man. This is embarrassing for him.”
There it was again.
His embarrassment.
His reputation.
His stress.
I replied gently.
“I’ve spent seven years protecting everyone from discomfort. I’m protecting myself and my child now.”
She became quiet.
“You’ve changed.”
“Yes.”
I looked through the kitchen window toward my mother’s garden.
“If I hadn’t changed, eventually there wouldn’t have been much of me left.”
The call ended shortly afterward.
I felt no guilt.
That itself was new.
Attorney Davis called me into her office later that week.
Michael’s attorneys had submitted additional financial material.
“They’re arguing that you merely managed household accounts funded primarily by Michael.”
“Can they prove that?”
“Some household expenses certainly came from his earnings. We’re not disputing that. But we have records tracing substantial payments to your separate savings.”
She opened another folder.
“There is one more issue.”
I waited.
“They’ve indicated that after the baby is born, Michael may ask for confirmation of parentage before support is finalized.”
I stared at her.
“So Jessica’s accusation worked.”
“Maybe. Or maybe his lawyer advised him to formalize everything. Either way, do not panic.”
“I’m not afraid of a test.”
“Good.”
“I know who my baby’s father is.”
“Then if it becomes necessary, we handle it properly.”
I left her office and walked for a long time before calling a cab.
My parents’ town sat far enough north that the air felt different from Manhattan, and when the wind came off Lake Ontario it carried a cool dampness that had been familiar to me since childhood.
I walked slowly with one hand resting beneath my growing stomach.
The next stage would be difficult.
But I had already crossed the point where returning to Michael’s apartment felt possible.
At dinner, Dad reminded me that the next court date was approaching.
Mom added more vegetables to my plate.
“Eat.”
“I’m eating.”
“You need strength.”
Dad put down his fork.
“Whatever happens, do not quit halfway because you become tired.”
I knew he was talking about more than court.
“Yes, Dad.”
That night, Michael sent a message.
“Court is next week. Be prepared.”
I answered:
“I am.”
Nothing else.
The morning of the next hearing, I woke early.
I chose a loose dress and tied my hair back carefully.
Mom stood behind me.
“Tell the truth. You don’t need to decorate it.”
Dad drove.
The courthouse hall smelled faintly of old paper and floor cleaner.
Michael was already seated when we entered.
Dark suit.
Neat hair.
Exhausted eyes.
Jessica sat behind him with Carol.
Attorney Davis placed her folders in front of us.
The hearing proceeded methodically.
She presented bank statements showing payments I had made from premarital savings.
Tony’s tuition.
Insurance.
Household costs.
Repairs.
Transfers.
Michael’s lawyer argued that those expenditures had been voluntary and that his salary had still provided the main household income.
That was true.
I had never denied it.
When I was asked to speak, I stood.
“I left my job when I moved to New York with my husband. During the marriage, I did not maintain the same career I had before. Michael earned most of our ongoing income. But I also used savings I already had, and I took responsibility for our home and for many expenses involving his extended family. I’m not asking the court to pretend he contributed nothing. I’m asking that nobody pretend I contributed nothing.”
The room became quiet.
Michael looked at me.
I did not look back.
Regarding the baby, he said he would accept legal responsibility once parentage was formally established after birth.
Attorney Davis had prepared me.
“I have no objection to lawful procedures.”
That answer ended the drama before it could begin.
After hours of discussion, the matter was continued while evidence was reviewed.
I stepped into the hallway exhausted.
Dad stood when he saw me.
“You all right?”
“I’m okay.”
Attorney Davis touched my arm.
“You did what you needed to do. Now let the process work.”
Michael came out moments later.
He hesitated.
Then approached.
“Althia.”
I waited.
“You didn’t have to take it this far.”
I studied his face.
“Where do you think the limit was?”
He said nothing.
“I compromised for seven years.”
There was no anger in my voice.
That made the sentence heavier.
He looked down.
“I didn’t know you were carrying all of that.”
“It isn’t that you didn’t know.”
His eyes lifted.
“You didn’t want to know.”
The words landed between us.
I walked back to Dad.
We left.
In the weeks afterward, Attorney Davis and I reviewed numbers constantly.
Every receipt became part of a timeline.
Every transfer had a date.
Every claim needed support.
Michael eventually sent a long message.
“I’ve reviewed the documents. I understand you spent more than I realized. But I still can’t agree with everything you’re asking. I would rather settle than drag this through court.”
I did not answer immediately.
That was another change.
The old me responded instantly whenever Michael was unhappy.
The new me allowed herself time.
That evening, I showed Dad the message.
Mom shook her head.
“Now he understands.”
Dad read it twice.
“No.”
Mom looked at him.
“He understands the numbers. He’s calculating what outcome benefits him.”
I stared at my father.
His words did not make Michael evil.
They made him human in a way I had refused to see.
I had spent years assuming kindness would automatically produce gratitude.
Sometimes it does.
Sometimes people simply grow accustomed to receiving.
I replied to Michael the following morning.
“You had an opportunity to negotiate fairly before I needed to file. My lawyer is handling it now. I’m not signing away my rights.”
Then I went to my prenatal appointment.
The baby was developing normally.
I watched the small movements on the ultrasound monitor and smiled.
Outside all the adult conflict, this child continued growing.
After leaving the clinic, I stopped at a small coffee shop near the lake.
I ordered a warm drink and opened the notebook I had started keeping after returning home.
Writing helped me understand what I felt.
Halfway through a page, someone said my name.
“Althia?”
I looked up.
“Andrew?”
He had been a classmate years earlier.
Tall, lean, familiar smile, though age had settled maturity into his face.
He pulled out a chair.
“It’s been forever.”
“It has.”
We talked about old classmates.
Work.
The town.
Eventually, he said carefully, “I heard about your divorce.”
“In a town this size, I’m not surprised.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m okay.”
He studied me.
“I think you are.”
I smiled.
“That sounds like you don’t believe me.”
“No. I mean I think you actually are.”
That made me laugh.
After a moment, he said, “When you left to marry Michael, I worried.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Andrew raised one eyebrow.
“Would you have listened?”
I thought about my younger self.
“No.”
“Exactly.”
We both laughed.
He did not ask for details.
He did not insult Michael.
He did not try to turn my vulnerability into an opportunity.
We simply talked.
Before leaving, he said, “If you need anything practical—rides, contacts, whatever—let me know.”
“Thanks.”
Driving home, I realized why the meeting had affected me.
Andrew had known me before I became Michael’s wife.
Before I became Jessica’s source of emergency money.
Before I became Carol’s disappointing daughter-in-law.
He remembered Althia.
Just Althia.
When I walked into my parents’ house, Mom looked at me.
“You’re smiling.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
She returned to folding laundry without asking anything else.
That was enough.
The next court date was set.
By then, the baby had begun moving.
One evening, I felt a small kick while holding the notice.
I pressed my palm against my stomach.
“Almost there.”
The second major hearing came on a cloudy morning.
Dad drove me and waited nearby.
Mom’s final words before I left the house were simple.
“Do what you believe is right.”
Attorney Davis met me with a thick folder.
“We have everything.”
Inside, Michael looked less composed than before.
Jessica did too.
The financial evidence came first.
Attorney Davis presented payment after payment.
Bank transfers.
Tuition.
Insurance.
Household expenses.
Records dating back years.
Michael’s expression changed gradually.
Annoyance.
Concentration.
Then something that looked like embarrassment when Tony’s school expenses were totaled.
But Attorney Davis had another piece of evidence.
She produced records from a shared tablet that had once remained logged into Jessica’s messaging account.
One conversation contained a message Jessica had sent to a friend.
Attorney Davis read the relevant line.
“Let them pay. She’ll keep doing it. When she finally stops, she’ll leave on her own.”
The room went still.
Jessica’s face changed.
“That’s taken out of context.”
Attorney Davis remained calm.
“The original device and account records can be examined if authenticity is disputed.”
Michael turned toward his sister.
“Jessica?”
She avoided his eyes.
“What does that mean?”
Jessica said nothing useful.
For years, I had begged Michael in a hundred indirect ways to notice what his sister was doing.
Now I did not have to explain.
The evidence was sitting in front of him.
The hearing continued.
During a recess, Michael approached.
“I didn’t know.”
I looked at him.
“You didn’t know, or you didn’t want to know?”
He stopped.
I stood and walked toward the hallway.
Dad was waiting.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
He gently touched my shoulder.
For the first time since the divorce began, the weight inside my chest felt noticeably lighter.
Not because I thought I had won.
Because the truth no longer depended on me persuading Michael to believe it.
When proceedings resumed, both sides made their final arguments on the disputed financial issues.
Michael’s attorney emphasized his earnings and asked for restraint in any adjustment based on extended-family expenses.
Attorney Davis summarized my contributions and the evidence showing how frequently I had used my own funds.
“We are not asking the court to punish anyone,” she concluded. “We are asking for an equitable accounting based on the evidence.”
That was exactly what I wanted.
Not punishment.
Recognition.
When we were dismissed to await the written ruling, Dad and I sat on a courthouse bench.
Michael eventually came out alone.
He walked toward me slowly.
“Althia.”
I looked up.
“I’m sorry.”
For once, there was no explanation attached.
I waited.
“For what?” I asked.
“For not standing up for you.”
He swallowed.
“For believing Jessica when I should have listened to my wife.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He looked almost surprised that I did not make it easier for him.
Then he said, “I want to fix this.”
I smiled faintly.
“Some things can’t be fixed, Michael.”
He stood there another second.
Then he walked away.
I watched without satisfaction.
Without triumph.
Without the ache I would once have felt.
The part of me that could still be broken by Michael had already healed enough to understand that regret was not the same thing as change.
Several months later, Attorney Davis called.
The written decision had arrived.
Our divorce was granted.
The marriage was officially over.
The financial ruling accounted for the documented marital property and the evidence of contributions made during the marriage. My attorney also preserved the necessary provisions concerning our child so that support and parentage could be formally addressed after Hannah’s birth.
I read the final page twice.
Then I cried.
Attorney Davis smiled.
“It’s over.”
I wiped my face.
“Yes.”
Outside, I stood on the sidewalk for a long moment.
My phone vibrated.
Andrew.
“Is it finished?”
“Yes.”
His answer came almost immediately.
“Then start your life.”
I smiled.
My hand moved over my stomach.
“We’re starting over,” I whispered.
The baby moved beneath my palm.
