Madison lowered her eyes as if she were embarrassed, but the satisfied curve of her mouth told me otherwise.

A year earlier, they had handed me divorce papers three days after my final failed fertility treatment.

Preston told everyone I’d grown bitter, unstable, obsessed with having a baby, and Madison backed his story, saying I’d pushed him away.

Between them they kept the house, most of our friends, and even the charity foundation I’d spent years building from nothing.

For months I woke with my hands pressed to my empty stomach, wondering whether every cruel thing they’d said about me was true.

I stopped answering calls.