For seven years, the Vances had treated my empty nursery as proof that I was defective.
They built celebrations around my shame and called their cruelty tradition.
The truth was simpler.
My body had never betrayed the marriage.
Julian had.
Outside, Sarah waited beside the car with the final divorce papers.
I signed them against the roof, handed her the pen and looked back once at the townhouse.
The chandelier glowed behind the windows, beautiful and cold.
Then the front door closed, and for the first time in seven years, I did not feel locked outside.
I felt released.
