“The house is in my family’s name.

The firm is mine.

She hasn’t worked since we married — no income, no savings, nothing of her own.

Her parents are gone.

If she wants to fight me for custody, she gets to stand up in a courtroom and prove she can support him.

She can’t.

She has nothing.”

I lay there and listened to the man who had spent nine months with his palm spread on my belly, murmuring that Micah was going to be our miracle, describe me as a piece of furniture that had finished its one useful function.