Chapter 1: The Beige Handbag on the Attorney's Desk
The light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows was so bright it made the dark wood desk look like it was floating. My youngest had her face pressed into the side of my white beaded gown and her pink bunny crushed against my leg, and my oldest had both hands fisted in the fabric near my waist. I was looking down at the top of their heads because I couldn't look anywhere else without having to see him.
Across the desk, he was at his peak and completely at ease. My husband sat behind the dark wood in his navy blazer with his white shirt open at the collar, his pocket square sharp, his watch catching the daylight every time he moved his hands. He held his dark smartphone like it mattered more than the papers between us. Behind me, his mother stood near the window in her navy top and pearls, and beside her his girlfriend stood with both hands cradled around her belly in that light blue dress, her white jacket slipping off her shoulders, calm and proprietary.
My name is Claire Morrison. I was thirty-six that morning, and we had come to sign the last of the divorce papers.
The attorney's office smelled like lemon polish and paper. The document folders were stacked on the glossy desk next to my beige handbag, the one with the gold hardware and the top handles I'd set down carefully when we walked in. The city skyline was bright and indifferent behind him. My girls breathed against me, small and warm. I could feel every sequin on my dress against my skin. I watched his thumbs move on his phone.
He didn't look up at first when he spoke. He looked down at that screen, his voice even and low, as if he were telling someone what to order for lunch.
"Take the girls. I'm having a son now. I want a real family."
He set the phone down for half a second, then picked it up again. He glanced toward the pregnant woman and gave her a small, satisfied smile before his eyes flicked back to me.
"They're your responsibility now."
My oldest tightened her grip. My youngest didn't move, just pressed harder. The older woman in the background shifted her weight but said nothing. The girlfriend kept both hands on her belly and smiled slightly, like this was already settled.
I didn't answer right away. I let the quiet sit there. My breathing stayed slow. I looked at his face first, then at the desk, at the folders with the white papers edged inside them, at my handbag sitting right beside them on that reflective surface. I reached forward with both hands and lifted the bag by its top handles. The gold hardware was cool against my fingers. The leather made a soft creak. I didn't open it. I just held it, and the weight of it grounded me.
That was when I said it. I kept my voice low enough that he had to listen.
"Keep both. Just remember one thing, having the keys to something doesn't mean you own it."
For a second his faint smile stayed. He was still holding the phone in both hands, his posture loose, his shoulders back against the leather chair, like he'd expected tears or an argument and got something he didn't know how to file away. Then the smile thinned. His eyes widened. His mouth opened just a fraction, and the color left his little self-satisfied look. He stared straight at me, and in the daylight coming from the window behind him, I could see the rim light on his hair and the stunned stillness that came over his whole face.
May you like
I turned before he could find a reply. I set my handbag over my forearm and took my oldest's hand in mine. She held the pink bunny out awkwardly as she stepped with me, her sleeve brushing my dress. The younger one stayed close to my other side. The floor was silent under our shoes.
Behind us, the desk was still there, the folders untouched, the man still seated with his phone, his eyes fixed on my back as I walked toward the office door with both girls. My hand was reaching for the handle, and the door hadn't opened yet.
