Her brothers stared down at the floor. The lawyer slid the page forward, but she would not touch it.
“You’re pregnant,” one brother whispered.
“Yes.”
The lawyer set the envelope down and gave me a small nod, the kind Russell used to give me across the breakfast table.
I picked up the box, the letter, and my coat. Nobody stopped me.
Outside, the air smelled of rain. I held the box against my chest the way I had once held my final paycheck, like something rare and fragile.
For a while, I expected victory to feel brighter. It did not. The first weeks were filled with paperwork, nausea, and rooms that echoed with his absence. Marlene sent one letter through her attorney, then nothing else. Her brothers accepted their allowances and kept their distance. I kept the charity photograph on the dresser, not because I looked beautiful in it, but because I looked unguarded.
