Almost numb.
For three years, my marriage had consumed so much of my identity that ending it felt like standing in an empty room after moving out every piece of furniture.
There was relief.
But there was grief too.
Grief for the person I’d believed Brandon was.
For the marriage I’d hoped we would have.
For the woman I’d been before learning to live in fear.
Outside the courthouse, Jasmine hugged me.
“You did it.”
I began crying.
“I did.”
She kissed my forehead.
“I’m proud of you.”
For once, I didn’t dismiss the compliment.
“Thank you.”
That evening, I returned to my small apartment.
I’d moved out of Jasmine’s place two months earlier.
It wasn’t glamorous.
One bedroom.
A tiny kitchen.
A living room with mismatched furniture.
But every object inside had been chosen by me.
Yellow curtains.
A blue sofa.
Plants near the window.
Watercolor paintings on the walls.
