The divorce papers arrived on a Tuesday morning.
A young courier stood on my doorstep, shifting his weight uncomfortably, clearly uneasy about handing an envelope to a sixty-four-year-old woman in a faded floral apron. I was still holding my first cup of coffee, steam rising lazily from the mug, when he asked for me by name.
“Catherine Stevens?”
I nodded, not yet sensing the ground about to disappear beneath my feet.
He explained, quietly and politely, that he needed my signature to confirm delivery. I glanced down at the words printed in bold at the top of the page and felt something inside me stall, like an engine that suddenly refuses to turn over.
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