I was nine months pregnant when the divorce papers arrived. Not during a dramatic confrontation. Not in the middle of some explosive argument.
They came by courier.
The doorbell rang on a dull gray Thursday morning. I waddled down the hallway, one hand pressed against my lower back, the other steadying myself against the wall because my center of gravity had completely disappeared.
When I opened the door, a young delivery driver smiled politely and held out a clipboard.
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