“Take your brat and go to hell,” my husband spat in the divorce courtroom—loud enough to stop the clerk’s typing.

The judge looked down again.

“This document,” she said, voice steady, “was submitted early this morning by the estate attorney of the late Eleanor Whitaker.”

My husband frowned as if the name were a mispronounced word. He leaned slightly toward his attorney, whispering something that made the attorney’s mouth twitch, a half-smirk of dismissal.

He had never heard the name before.

But I had.