“Did you wait until after the divorce?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“No,” I said. “It’s just that your side didn’t take it seriously.”
“You’re trying to destroy me.”
“I’m stopping you from walking away with something that isn’t entirely yours.”
For a moment, the old fear returned: the years of being discarded, interrupted, overlooked.
Then Owen tapped softly on the window behind me.
That was enough.
“I left with just one bag because I was exhausted,” I said. “Not because you won.”
“The divorce is final,” Grant said sharply.
“Yes,” I replied. “But lies don’t become truth just because a judge signs a piece of paper.”
His phone rang again.
This time, he didn’t seem so sure of himself.
I got in my car and left.
In the rearview mirror, I watched him drive away from his celebrating family, now alone, listening to someone explain that the victory he thought he had wasn’t real.
I had imagined that he would feel triumphant in that moment.
He didn’t.
He was
