When the judge finalized the divorce, James basked in his supposed victory, convinced he had secured every tangible marker of success: the house, the cars, the accounts, even the furniture that once symbolized a shared future. I simply closed my bag and let a small laugh slip out. He believed he’d triumphed, unaware that the trap he walked into was one he’d built with his own blindness.

I had met him years earlier, dazzled by his charm and relentless hunger for status. What I mistook for ambition was really vanity, and soon our marriage revolved around appearances he couldn’t afford. He dressed me like a trophy, chased admiration, and measured his worth in possessions. The one thing he never understood—not then and not even when we bought the house—was the significance of my mother’s quiet presence.