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.

Inside, the courthouse smells like damp coats, floor polish, and paperwork that has spent too long in metal cabinets. Your attorney, Michael Grant, waits near the security checkpoint with a leather folder tucked under one arm. He is in his early fifties, silver at the temples, composed in that particular way good attorneys often are, as if they have seen too many human disasters to be impressed by any single one.

His eyes go first to your face, then briefly to your belly, then back again.

“You’re right on time,” he says.

“I usually am.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Yes. They usually count on that.”

Damian reaches you just in time to hear the exchange. “Can we keep the theatrics to a minimum?” he says. “We agreed this would be simple.”

Michael turns to him with professional calm. “I’m always delighted when opposing parties use words like simple. It keeps my day interesting.”

Rebecca’s expression hardens. Damian’s jaw tightens. You almost smile.

The hearing room is smaller than you imagined. No grand chamber, no soaring ceiling, none of the cinematic majesty people expect from justice. Just rows of benches, a clerk, a judge’s seat, a flag in one corner, and the thick, stale quiet of legal endings processed one after another. You take your seat at counsel table and fold your hands over your belly.

The baby shifts.

A tiny rolling pressure, then a firm kick.

You lower your palm and press gently in answer. It steadies you at once.

Damian sits across from you, Rebecca behind him in the first row, angled just enough to show off her profile to anyone who glances her way. She looks less like a mistress at a divorce hearing than a woman attending the preview of a property she intends to occupy. That, you think, is the thing about people who steal lives. They often confuse possession with worth.

The judge enters. Everyone rises.

The hearing begins in clean, procedural language. Irretrievable breakdown. Settlement terms. Asset division. Parenting intentions pending birth. Damian’s attorney speaks in the polished tone of a man billing by the hour and careful not to step outside the prearranged script. Michael responds with equal precision. The clerk shuffles papers. Pens scratch. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as if none of this is remarkable.

And for several minutes, it seems Damian may be right.

It may, in fact, be simple.