I never imagined my marriage would end in a cold, clinical courtroom. Twenty years of shared mornings, quiet dinners, and memories—reduced to a stack of papers on a polished wooden desk. My husband, Daniel, didn’t even look at me as he sat beside his lawyer. He stared straight ahead, his jaw tight, as if the life we built had been nothing but a legal inconvenience he was finally ready to “resolve.”
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I clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking. Across the aisle, my sister held my 8-year-old niece, Lily, on her lap. She’d insisted on coming with me for “moral support,” though I didn’t want her to witness the ugliness of divorce. But she’d begged, wanting to sit beside me. I didn’t know then how much her presence would matter.
“Mrs. Carter,” the judge said softly, “do you have anything to add before we finalize the dissolution of your marriage?”
My throat tightened.
What could I say? That I didn’t want this? That I had tried to save something Daniel had already thrown away? That the last six months had been a blur of lies, absences, and unexplained anger?
I opened my mouth—but Daniel’s lawyer cut in.
“Your Honor, my client requests we proceed. The terms are clear.”
I looked at Daniel. “Is that really all you have to say after twenty years?”
His eyes flickered for a moment—guilt, perhaps—but he looked away. My heart broke all over again.
The judge sighed, lifting the document. “Very well. I’ll read the judgment and—”
Suddenly, a small voice rang out.
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