Trevor received zero spousal support and zero equity from an estate he had never owned a piece of, and surrendered the luxury sedan that had been leased through my firm.

Deprived of my income and my credit lines, he moved back into a cramped rental in the very neighborhood he had spent years clawing his way out of.

Marguerite, whose grand vision of herself as the queen of a castle had evaporated the morning she was walked down my driveway, took a part-time job working nights at a laundromat to help cover their expenses.

And Bristol’s influencer career, which had consisted entirely of photographs taken beside my pool and captions describing a wealth that was never hers, collapsed the instant she lost access to the backdrop; she was working, last I heard, as an entry-level cashier at a mall.

I did not gloat over any of it.

I noted it, the way you note weather.