“Take your brat and go to hell,” my husband snapped across the divorce courtroom, his voice loud enough to freeze the clerk’s hands over her keyboard.
The words hit the room so hard it felt like something invisible had shattered. Richard didn’t mutter them the way decent people hide their cruelty. He said them clearly, projecting them so they echoed off the heavy oak paneling, the witness stand, and the judge’s high bench.
I kept my eyes glued to the defense table in front of me. The varnish was scratched from years of restless hands and desperate pleas. I traced one faint groove with my gaze, pretending it was a lifeline that could keep me from falling apart.
