I heard their commentary, the chorus of good intentions turning into a sermon I preferred not to attend.
The other one agreed. “Honestly, Angela really makes trouble for nothing. She has such a good life, yet she insists on a divorce. And the child is still so young.”
Still, I did not look at Jonathan.
Instead, I lowered my head and began arranging tins of formula on the shelf.
“I made myself clear yesterday, Jonathan," I replied. "Sign the divorce papers first, then we’ll talk.”
I said it the way you'd hand someone a train ticket—practical, not dramatic. The papers were a closed door I was offering him to walk through or slam.
His shoulders stiffened. He hugged Ethan tighter, then pulled a velvet box from his bag.
Opening it, a delicate glimmer of light spilled out.
He was trying to buy a smile the same way people buy roses—carefully, sincerely, and a bit silly. For a moment, I almost felt manipulated into feeling something I had already decided I couldn't feel.
“Angela, look. This is for you.”
I already knew what he hoped would work. It was written all over his jaw.
Inside was a silver necklace, the pendant a tiny fish-shaped locket.