My mother-in-law handed me the divorce papers with a smile on her face and said it was for the best. She said Nathan had outgrown me. She said I should be grateful for the three years he had provided for me. She said I could keep the apartment for six months.

I signed. I shouldn't have. But I was twenty-six years old and I had spent three years being told, in a hundred small ways, that I was lucky to be there. That I was too ordinary for Nathan's family. That I was a temporary arrangement in a permanent world.

Nathan wasn't there when I signed. He was in Singapore, his mother said. He was very busy. He sent his regards.

I found out later that he hadn't been in Singapore. He had been twenty minutes away, in a hotel, waiting to see if I would sign or fight. His mother had told him I would sign immediately. She had been right.

That was two years ago. I spent those two years rebuilding — a new job, a new apartment, a new version of myself that didn't need to be told she was enough. I was doing well. I was almost fine.