When Daniel told me he wanted a divorce, he didn’t soften a single word.

We were sitting at the kitchen island—the one I helped design, the one with the skylight he loved showing off to his friends. He clasped his hands together, calm and detached, and said, “I want the house, the cars, the savings. Everything.” Then, as if mentioning an afterthought, he added, “You can keep our son.”

Our son, Ethan, was eight and upstairs doing his homework. I remember noticing how carefully Daniel avoided saying his name, as if calling him “the son” made it easier to discard him. My chest tightened, but I didn’t cry. I had learned early in our marriage that Daniel read tears as weakness.

A week later, my lawyer, Margaret Collins, nearly dropped her pen when I repeated his demands in her office.