had left my suitcases on the sidewalk like trash.
“Don’t make this embarrassing, Claire,” Margaret Whitmore said from the marble steps of the home where I’d lived for seven years. She wore cream silk and diamonds before noon, as if humiliation required formal attire. “Ethan has moved on. You should learn to do the same.”
Behind her, my ex-husband stood with one hand in his pocket, avoiding my eyes.
Our divorce had been finalized only ninety minutes earlier.
Seven years of marriage, reduced to signatures.
I looked at Ethan. “You
