Part 1
It had barely been five minutes since I signed the divorce documents when my ex-husband picked up a call from his mistress right in front of me and told her, in the gentlest tone I had ever heard him use, that he was on his way to see “their baby.”
That was the instant I realized I had not lost my marriage that morning.
I had finally escaped it.
The mediator’s office was painfully bright, spotless, and silent in a way that felt wrong for the destruction gathered around that polished table. My name is Catherine Harlow. I was thirty-two years old, mother to two children under ten, and I had just ended an eight-year marriage to David Harlow—the man who once cried while sliding my wedding ring onto my finger and swore I would never have to face the world alone.
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