I had come into that country club as the discarded first wife, the punchline, the woman the room had agreed not to see.

I was walking out as someone else.

Nothing about my life had changed yet — the lawyers and the settlement and the long repair were all still ahead of me — but something in how I carried myself had, permanently, and I felt it settle in as we walked.

My son had reminded me, in the most public way imaginable, that I was worth defending.

I was not going to forget it again.

We were halfway across the gravel lot to the car when I heard someone behind us, and I turned, and it was Ione — barefoot, her hair half undone, holding the flash drive in one hand.