** I decided to test my husband and told him: “Honey, I got fired!” — but the truth was, I’d been promoted….

For both of us. My stomach turned. I let my bottom lip tremble, just slightly.

Are you saying divorce? He nodded, reaching for his wine like he deserved to take a victory sip. Yeah, but amicable. Civil.

I don’t want to fight. I’m willing to help you get on your feet. You’ll need a place to stay, obviously.

And some money to get settled. I tilted my head, just enough to seem fragile. You’d do that for me? Of course, he said, placing a hand on his chest like some kind of savior.

I care about you, Rachel. I just… I don’t think we’re right for each other anymore. We’ve both changed.

He paused for effect, then added. And the house, it’s legally mine. It was left to me by my father.

But I want to be fair. I’ll offer you a settlement. Something to help with rent for a few months.

I blinked, let out a shaky breath. How much? He named a number. It was laughable.

A fraction of what I’d invested into that home. But I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even flinch.

Instead, I stared at him like I was seeing him for the first time. I just… I thought we’d try harder, I whispered. I thought we were stronger than this.

Brian reached out, touched my hand like a man playing a role he no longer cared about. I’m sorry, but this is the best path forward. I promise.

And right then, I gave him what he wanted. I nodded slowly, eyes misty, lips pressed tight in defeat. Okay, I said.

I’ll think about it. He exhaled, visibly relieved. But behind my silence, behind the trembling breath and the wet lashes, I was already building my case.

Because he didn’t want lawyers. But I was going to bring the best one in town. The next morning, I left the house before Brian even stirred.

He was still snoring on the couch, buried beneath a blanket like a child hiding from consequences. I didn’t leave a note this time. No explanation.

No polite goodbye. Just silence. Let him wonder.

Downtown Portland was just waking up when I stepped into the old brick building where Monica Bell’s office was tucked between a florist and a tax accountant. The hallway smelled faintly of lavender and ink. I sat in the waiting room for 10 minutes that felt like a lifetime, rehearsing what to say.

But when Monica opened the door and called my name, I stood up, walked in, and told her everything. Not everything, exactly. I left out Claire.

The baby. The betrayal, so deep it made my voice crack. But I gave her enough.

Enough for a lawyer to see the shape of the battlefield ahead. The inherited house. The years of shared expenses.

The receipts and bank statements. The way he wanted a divorce, fast and quiet, with a sum so low it was insulting. Monica listened without judgment.

Her face was calm, analytical, her pen gliding over a yellow legal pad like it had been trained for war. You’ve been married 10 years, she asked, her tone precise. 12, I corrected.

10, legally. 2, before that. She nodded, made a note.

Any children? No. Proof of financial contributions to the home? I have receipts, invoices, bank statements. Everything.

Furniture. Renovations. Fixtures.

She leaned back, folded her hands. Rachel, you have a case. A strong one.

But I need you to understand something. If we go forward with this, there’s no turning back. It won’t be pretty.

He’s going to fight dirty. I looked her straight in the eye. He already is.

Her expression didn’t change. But something behind her eyes shifted. Respect, maybe.

Or recognition. Then, let’s get to work. When I stepped outside, the air felt different.

Cooler. Lighter. I still had a mountain to climb…