The doorbell rang sharply in the quiet apartment. I was nine months pregnant, my body heavy and unsteady, one hand pressed against my lower back as I wobbled toward the door.
A young courier stood there, clipboard in hand, smiling with the practiced politeness of someone delivering a routine package.
“Signature required,” he said cheerfully.
I signed without looking, then closed the door and opened the envelope. Inside were divorce papers. At the top, a brief, familiar scrawl: “I’m not coming back. Don’t make this harder.”
My heart dropped. Nine months along, and Grant had already made his choice.
Before I could fully process, my phone buzzed with a message from him: Meet me at Westbridge Courthouse at 2. We’ll finalize.
No apology. No explanation. Just cold instructions.
That was the moment I realized everything was about to change—and nothing after would ever be the same.
That was the day I learned just how little he cared for the life we were supposed to build.
