As I loaded the last bag into my car, Denise pulled into the driveway. He looked smaller than I remembered, his expensive leather jacket wrinkled and his eyes bloodshot. He didn’t approach the car; he just stood by his bumper, watching his life drive away.
“I’ll see you in court, Denise,” I said through the open window. I didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. There was no energy left for theatrics. I had already contacted a high-profile divorce attorney who specialized in hidden assets and complicated custody battles.
He tried to step forward, his hand outstretched as if to touch the door handle. I simply rolled up the window and locked the doors. The click of the locks was the most satisfying sound I had heard in years. It was the sound of a boundary being drawn in stone.
I drove away without looking in the rearview mirror. My children were safe in the back seat, and for the first time in a long time, the air in the car felt clean. We weren’t going back to a hotel; we were going to my sister’s house to start the first day of our new life.
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