I didn’t walk so much as I dragged the anchor of my own body across the linoleum. At eight months pregnant, my center of gravity had shifted, pulling me toward the earth, while my swollen ankles throbbed with a rhythmic, dull heat. My left hand was braced against the small of my back, trying to massage away the ache that had taken up permanent residence there. My right hand gripped a manila folder so tightly the edges were beginning to crumple. Inside were the medical bills—unpaid, terrifying, and evidence of the financial stranglehold my husband had placed on me.

My name is Lily Caldwell. Once, I was an art curator with a vibrant laugh and a circle of friends. Now, I was a cautionary tale in maternity leggings and a thrifted sweater.

My goal for the day was deceptively simple: survive the hearing, sign the papers, and retreat to the lumpy couch at my friend Sarah’s apartment. I truly believed the worst thing I would face that morning was the finality of a divorce decree. I thought the bottom of the well had already been reached.

Then, I saw him.