I bought expensive organic peaches at the Sunday farmer’s market without checking my banking app for unauthorized withdrawals.

I slept deeply, dreamlessly.

I invited Clare over for dinner, and I aggressively seared salmon—a dish Ethan had violently detested. We ate it on the back patio, drinking cheap Pinot Grigio and laughing until our ribs ached.

“You’re radiating a different energy, Liv,” Clare noted, swirling her wine. “I feel different. Lighter.” “You’re more honest.” She was right. I had stopped pretending everything was fine.

In late July, I volunteered to lead a weekend financial literacy seminar at a local women’s shelter for survivors of domestic and financial abuse. I did it initially because Lauren suggested it would look good to the court, but it quickly became my sanctuary.

After my second session, a woman my age lingered by the podium, clutching a crumpled manila folder to her chest like a shield. “My… my husband handles all the passwords,” she whispered, her voice thick with shame.