The morning of our divorce, my husband walked in with his mistress on his arm—both dressed like they’d already claimed the life they thought they stole from me.

Not here at the courthouse. Not on the day he filed. Not when he coldly proposed “a respectful separation.” It ended there, through your windshield, while your unborn son kicked against your ribs and your husband kissed another woman like he had never known the weight of vows.

A knock taps against the passenger-side window.

You open your eyes.

Damian stands outside in a charcoal suit that fits him too well and a smile that fits him worse. Beside him, Rebecca glows in a burgundy sheath dress and heels sharp enough to puncture tile. She keeps one manicured hand looped through his arm as if she already owns everything she touches.

You lower the window just a few inches.

“We should head in,” Damian says. His tone is smooth, almost courteous, and somehow that makes it uglier. “The judge doesn’t like people being late.”

You give him a tiny nod. “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience the court on your big day.”

Rebecca laughs softly, the sound sugar-coated and pointed. “Cristina, I do hope we can keep things civilized. This is painful, yes, but in the long run it’s for the best. Damian needs a partner who understands the world he moves in.”

Her gaze dips deliberately to your stomach and back to your face.

“And you, well,” she says, smiling that knife-edged smile, “you have different priorities now.”

Your mother makes a sound under her breath, the kind that belongs to women who have lived long enough to recognize evil even when it arrives wearing expensive lipstick. But you open the door before she can speak.

The rain is colder than you expected.

You step out slowly, one hand under your belly, one on the top of the door, and meet Rebecca’s eyes with such quiet steadiness that her smile flickers. She expected tears. She expected humiliation. She expected the swollen, abandoned wife to come undone in the parking circle before the hearing even began.

You give her nothing.

“You’re right,” you say. “I do.”

Then you walk past them toward the courthouse doors.

They follow a few paces behind, heels and dress shoes striking wet concrete in an uneven rhythm. You can feel them there without turning around. Damian’s impatience. Rebecca’s smugness. Their certainty that they have already won. People are always most careless when they think the ending belongs to them.