“No,” I said quietly, but the word held weight. “I don’t want to live with you, Linda.”
Linda blinked in that slow, patronizing way teachers use when a student speaks out of line. Then she opened her purse. She pulled out divorce papers.
Already signed. Justin’s signature lay there, stark and final, like an old wound ripped open.
She had brought them with her—to my new home—like this confrontation had been scheduled, planned, rehearsed.
Linda slid the documents across the counter and tapped the signature line with her perfectly manicured finger.
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