The courthouse smelled faintly of bleach and old paper, the kind of sterile scent that clung to your clothes long after you left. I stood there in my secondhand dress, the hem slightly frayed, my fingers wrapped tightly around a faded leather purse that had once belonged to my mother. It was the only thing of value I’d kept after years of slowly paring my life down to what I truly needed. Across the table, Mark—my ex-husband of twelve years—signed the divorce papers with an air of satisfaction that made my chest ache. His movements were relaxed, confident, as if this moment were nothing more than a routine business transaction. Beside him sat his fiancée, Veronica, young and immaculate, her silk dress shimmering under the fluorescent lights. She leaned close to him, whispered something, and he chuckled, the sound sharp and dismissive. “Couldn’t even bother to dress up, Emma?” she said aloud, her voice sweet on the surface but dripping with mockery. Mark didn’t bother to look at me. “She’s always been stuck in the past,” he replied coolly, setting the pen down with finality. “Guess she’ll stay there.”