Brook Patricia Mathis's office was nothing like I'd imagined. I'd pictured something cold and sterile, all glass and chrome, but instead it was warm—burgundy walls, soft lighting, framed photos of what looked like her family scattered across the credenza behind her desk. It made everything feel more real somehow. More final. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," I said, settling into the chair across from her desk. My hands rested on top of my belly, where Sofia had been kicking all morning like she could sense my anxiety. "Of course." Patricia was probably in her fifties, with kind eyes and silver threading through her dark hair. "Why don't you tell me what brought you here?" So I did. I told her everything—Celeste showing up demanding ten thousand dollars, the threat about Preston, the fake DNA test, Tyson walking out on me while I was seven months pregnant. My voice stayed steady
through most of it, clinical almost, like I was recounting something that had happened to someone else. Patricia took notes, her expression sympathetic but professional. When I finished, she set down her pen and looked at me directly. "First, I want to say I'm sorry you're going through this. What your sister-in-law did—the blackmail, the fake test—that's unconscionable." She paused. "My next question is important, and I need you to be honest with me. Do you want to reconcile with your husband?" The question hit me harder than I expected. Did I? Three days ago, the answer would have been a desperate, immediate yes. I would have done anything to fix this, to make him see reason, to get him to come home. But that was before he'd looked at our son and doubted him. Before he'd chosen his sister's lies over five years of marriage. Before he'd left me alone and pregnant to deal with the fallout of his choices. "I don't know," I said finally. "Part of me wants to. Part of me still loves him so much it physically hurts. But I don't know if I can forgive what he did. I don't know if I can ever trust him again." I met her eyes. "What I do know is that I need to protect myself and my children. Whether we reconcile or not, I need to make sure we're safe." Patricia nodded. "That's a very mature perspective. And it's smart. Even if you ultimately decide to work things out, having a legal framework in place protects you." She pulled out a fresh legal pad. "Let's talk specifics. You have one child together, Preston, age four. You're currently seven months pregnant with your second child, a girl." "Sofia," I said softly. "We were going to name her Sofia." "Sofia," Patricia r epeated, writing it down. The use of past tense— were going to name her—made my chest tight. "You and Tyson have been married for five years. Do you own your home?" "Yes. We bought it three years ago. Both our names are on the mortgage." "Other significant assets? Vehicles, savings, retirement accounts?" I listed everything I could think of. It felt surreal, cataloging our life together like items on an inventory sheet. The house where we'd brought Preston home from the hospital. The truck Tyson had been so proud to buy. The savings account we'd been building for the kids' college funds. "What about custody?" Patricia asked. "What are you thinking in terms of arrangements?" The question made my stomach drop. Custody meant splitting time with Preston. It meant our son shuttling between two houses, two bedrooms, two lives. It meant Sofia growing up in a broken home from day one. "I want primary custody," I heard myself say. "He can have visitation, but I want the kids with me most of the time. Especially Sofia—she'll be nursing, and I don't want her away from me for long stretches." Patricia nodded, making notes. "That's reasonable, especially given the circumstances and the baby's age. Most courts favor the mother in cases in volving infants, particularly if you're breastfeeding." She looked up. "I have to ask—is there any concern about Tyson's fitness as a parent? Any history of abuse, substance issues, anything that would make you uncomfortable with him having unsupervised visitation?" "No," I said immediately. "No, he's a good father. He loves Preston. He would never hurt him." My voice cracked slightly. "That's what makes this so much worse. He's a good dad, and he still doubted his own son." "I understand." Patricia's voice was gentle. "Brook, I'm going to be straight with you. If you file for divorce,
it's going to be difficult. Not legally—you have grounds, and the circumstances are clearly in your favor. But emotionally. You're going to have moments where you question everything, where you wonder if you're making the right choice. That's normal." I nodded, my throat tight. "You're also going to have people—probably a lot of people—telling you to forgive him, to work it out, to think of the children. And maybe eventually you will. But right now, you need to focus on you and those babies. Okay?" "Okay," I whispered. We spent another thirty minutes going over details—timelines, paperwork, costs. By the time I left her office, I had a folder full of documents and a follow-up appointment scheduled for next week. I also had the crushing realization that I was actually doing this. I was planning to divorce Tyson. The thought made me feel sick. But it also made me feel strong. I wasn't the same woman who'd begged him to stay Friday night, who'd sobbed on the floor after he left. I wasn't the same woman who'd spent Saturday in shock, barely able to function. I was someone new now. Someone harder. Someone who'd been broken and was figuring out how to rebuild herself into something that couldn't be broken the same way again. That night, I'd just gotten Preston into his pajamas when I heard a truck pull into the driveway. My heart lurched. I knew that engine sound. Tyson. I moved to the window and saw him climbing out of his truck, his shoulders hunched, his face haggard even in the dim porch light. He looked like he hadn't sl ept in days. Good. He walked up to the front door, and I heard the doorbell ring. Then his knock. Then his voice, muffled through the wood. "Brook? Baby, please. I know you're in there. Please, just let me talk to you." I stood frozen in the hallway, my hand pressed against my belly where Sofia was doing somersaults. "I was wrong," he continued, his voice breaking. "I was so fucking wrong, and I know that now. I should have trusted you. I should have believed in us. Please, Brook. Please just open the door." Preston appeared at the top of the stairs in his dinosaur pajamas. "Mommy? Is that Daddy?" "Go back to your room, baby," I said softly. "I'll be up in a minute." "But Daddy—" "Now, Preston." He retreated, his little face confused and hurt, and I hated Tyson for that. For making our son confused and hurt. For making me the bad guy who wouldn't let him see his father. I walked to the door but didn't open it. "Tyson, go home." "Brook—" "I said go home. I met with a divorce lawyer today. You'll be served with papers soon. If you want to talk, you can talk to my attorney." The silence on the other side of the door was deafening. Then: "No. No, Brook, please. Don't do this. I love you. I love our family. I made a mistake, but we can fix this—" "It's too late." My voice didn't waver, even though my hands were shaking. "You made your choice when you walked out that door. When you believed her over me. When you looked at our son and doubted him." "I'm sorry—" "I'll see you in court, Tyson." I heard him make a sound—a sob, maybe, or something close to it. "Brook, please. Please don't do this. I can't lose you. I can't lose our kids." I closed my eyes, my forehead resting against the door. Every instinct screamed at me to open it, to let him in, to let him hold me and tell me it would be okay. But it wouldn't be okay. Not anymore. I walked to the living room window and closed the curtains, shutting out the sight of him standing on our porch, broken and
desperate. Then I went upstairs to tuck Preston in, my heart shattering with every st ep. Behind me, I heard Tyson's truck finally start up and pull away. I didn't let myself cry until Preston was asle ep.