On our tenth anniversary, my husband handed me divorce papers instead of flowers.
The envelope landed beside my untouched slice of lemon cake. I had baked it myself that afternoon while our twins, Mia and Ethan, made paper hearts at the kitchen table. Ten years, I thought, deserved something homemade. Something warm.
But Brent Caldwell stood across from me in his navy suit, his jaw tight, his wedding ring already missing.
“Sign them,” he said.
I stared at the papers. “Brent, what is this?”
“A divorce. Obviously.”
The room went silent except for the refrigerator humming behind me. Our children froze near the hallway, still wearing their pajamas. Mia clutched her stuffed rabbit. Ethan’s lips trembled.
“You’re doing this tonight?” I whispered. “In front of them?”
Brent laughed once, cold and sharp. “Don’t act shocked, Natalie. You knew this marriage was dead.”
I had known he was distant. I had known about the late nights, the locked phone, the smell of another woman’s perfume on his shirts. But I had not known he had planned my humiliation like a business meeting.
Then the front door opened.
A woman stepped in.
She was younger than me, maybe twenty-eight, with glossy black hair and a cream coat that probably cost more than our mortgage payment. I recognized her from Brent’s office Christmas party.
Vanessa.
