The manila envelope skidded low across the marble and bumped my coffee cup an inch off its saucer.

Trent didn’t sit. He stood at the far end of the island with his cuff tugged back, turning his wrist until the light caught the clasp of his watch.

“Those are yours,” he said. “I had them prepared in Tempe.”

I read the first page from where I was standing. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage, County of Maricopa.

“Brooke’s pregnant.” The refrigerator clicked and went quiet.

“Eleven weeks,” he said.

“Mom says she’s finally getting a daughter-in-law who can give her some grandchildren.”

I set my cup back on its saucer and lined the handle up with the grout line.

Six years in that kitchen, and I knew where every one of those lines ran.

“You’re divorcing me because some other woman is pregnant.”

“I’m divorcing you because we’re finished.

The baby is just the piece that finally makes it make sense.”

He slid the envelope nearer.

Its corner was still warm from his hand.