I wanted desperately to believe him.
That was what made it dangerous.
Love had never been our problem.
Trust was.
“What happens next?” I asked.
“You decide where you live.”
He spoke carefully, as though every sentence was a promise being placed on the table.
“You decide what access I have while we work out custody.
You keep your own phone, your own money, your own lawyer.
No one follows you without your knowledge.
No one moves you anywhere.”
He paused.
“And I make sure the parts of my life that scared you never become hers.”
“You make that sound simple.”
“It isn’t.”
That answer mattered too.
He wasn’t promising magic.
He was promising work.
Henderson quietly excused himself.
The folder remained.
I opened it.
Adrian did not move.
My eyes found his signature at the bottom of the page.
Strong, decisive handwriting.
He had signed away our marriage thinking I wanted freedom from him.
I had come prepared to do the same while hiding the truth that bound us forever.
My hand reached for the pen.
Adrian’s face became unreadable.
I held the pen over the final line.
Then our daughter kicked.
Hard.
I gasped and pressed my hand to the movement.
Adrian took one involuntary step toward the bed, then stopped himself.
I noticed.
“Do you want to feel?” I asked.
He looked almost suspicious, as if the question might vanish if he answered too quickly.
“Yes.”
He approached slowly.
I took his hand and placed it against the side of my stomach.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then she kicked again.
Adrian froze.
All the power that had once frightened me disappeared from his face.
His eyes filled with something raw and astonished.
“That’s her?” he whispered.
I nodded.
His thumb moved once against the fabric of my dress.
“She’s strong.”
“She keeps me awake every night.”
A tiny smile touched his mouth.
“I deserved that.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
It was the first time I had laughed with him in eight months.
Neither of us pretended it fixed the marriage.
It didn’t.
I still signed the divorce papers.
