I found the papers tucked neatly between the electric bill and a catalogue for luxury watches—divorce documents with David's signature already dried on the dotted line. Fifteen years of marriage concluded in cold legalese while I'd been at my mother's bedside in hospice care. I stood motionless in our marble kitchen, the kitchen I'd designed three years ago during the renovation David had called "unnecessarily extravagant." The same kitchen where he'd just deposited these papers without even the courtesy of a conversation.