My attorney, Margaret—a gentle older woman—pulled me aside one afternoon and said quietly, “Emily, something isn’t right. He’s planning something. Stay calm. We’ll get through this.”
The court date was scheduled for the following month.
Lily didn’t know the details, but she felt everything. She became unusually quiet. She stopped humming while brushing her teeth. She stopped dancing in the living room. My joyful little girl was slowly folding inward, piece by piece.
On the morning of the hearing, I dressed Lily in her favorite pale blue dress—the one she called her “sky dress.” She clutched her stuffed rabbit tightly as we drove to the courthouse.
“Mommy,” she said suddenly, “if the judge asks me something, can I answer honestly?”
“Of course,” I replied, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she whispered, turning to look out the window.
But there was a reason. I could feel it.
The courtroom smelled of old paper and polished wood. Mark sat across from us at the petitioner’s table. And beside him—my stomach dropped—was Kelly, the woman from his office. Blonde. Young. Always laughing too loudly at his jokes.
So that was it.
The affair.