Without ceremony, he dropped a thick cardboard folder onto our pristine duvet, the sound sharp and final, like a gavel striking wood in a courtroom announcing someone else’s fate.
I did not need to open it; the words “PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE” were printed clearly on the tab, announcing the end of our seven year marriage in cold capitals.
Mark did not bother with polite excuses or lawyer crafted phrases about irreconcilable differences; instead, he gave me the purest, ugliest version of his reasoning, dressed entirely in aesthetics and contempt.
He looked me up and down slowly, deliberately, letting his eyes linger on every perceived imperfection as if building a case against me from my own exhausted, changing body.
“Look at you, Appa,” he said, voice thick with disgust.
