I remember standing in our own doorway, uncertain whether I still had any right to simply walk inside, understanding, for the first time perhaps, exactly how thoroughly I’d forfeited whatever comfortable assumptions I’d once held about that house genuinely still being mine. She invited me into the kitchen wordlessly, the same kitchen where we’d shared nine years of ordinary breakfasts, and I felt, sitting down at that familiar table, an overwhelming grief for exactly how much devastation my own choices had brought into a space that had once simply represented home.
She’d already consulted an attorney, she explained, a careful, methodical woman named Diane Foster who specialized specifically in complex divorce proceedings involving significant infidelity documentation.
