The air was thick with the scent of old money and fresh grief as I stepped out of my car, the divorce papers clutched in my trembling hand. The mansion, once my supposed home, loomed ahead, a monument to a love that was never truly mine. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird desperate to escape its cage.

"I still don't understand why you can't live with me and mommy?" Noah's small voice, laced with an unbearable sadness, cut through the silence. My breath hitched. It was Rowan, my now ex-husband, trying to explain our divorce to our son.

"These things just happen," Rowan mumbled, a placation, not an answer. He never could bring himself to speak softly to me, but for Noah, his voice was a balm. Then, Noah's innocent question pierced me, sharper than any blade: "Don't you love her?"

I braced myself, my heart racing, for the familiar sting of the truth. He cleared his throat, a tell-tale sign of his evasion. "Noah… I love her for giving me you." The words were a bitter echo of the life we'd built, a constant reminder that I was merely a vessel, never the destination of his heart.

Just as I was about to retreat, his deep voice, laced with annoyance, sliced through my thoughts: "Has anyone ever told you it's rude to listen to other people's conversations?" I squared my shoulders and walked into the kitchen, ready to face the man who had always seen me as nothing more than an interruption.