At the divorce hearing, I’m eight months pregnant—hands on my belly, trying to breathe through the whispers. My husband smirks and leans in, voice like a k:nife: “Let’s see how you’ll survive without me.”

I received the house, restitution, the majority of marital assets, legal fees, and sole decision-making authority over our daughter until Victor completed court-ordered evaluations.

Outside the courthouse, he finally found his voice.

“Elena,” he said hoarsely. “Please. Don’t do this.”

I rested one hand over my belly.

“You did this,” I replied.

Three months later, my daughter was born during a violent thunderstorm.

My mother held my hand. My lawyer sent flowers. The house was warm, quiet, and finally mine.

I named my daughter Clara.

Light.