“My mistress is giving me a real heir, so take the kids and be grateful,” my husband said after our $3.8 million divorce settlement. Five minutes later, I showed him two passports, one DNA report, and the flight confirmation he had already signed.

“You can go celebrate the baby you think is yours,” I said.

Daniel froze with the silver pen still between his fingers. His sister, Vanessa, stopped tapping her acrylic nails against the mediator’s table.

The office smelled like stale coffee, copier toner, and rain on wool coats. The thermostat blew dry heat against my ankles. Outside the glass wall, downtown Chicago traffic hissed over wet pavement.

My name is Elena Marquez.

Nine years of marriage ended at 2:15 p.m. with three signatures, one stamped decree, and my wedding ring sitting beside a paper cup no one had touched.

Daniel leaned back in his navy suit.

“Don’t make this ugly,” he said. “You already got more than you deserved.”

Vanessa smiled.

“You get to keep the kids without a fight. My brother can finally build a real family with Brooke.”

A real family.

That was how they said it in front of my eight-year-old son, Noah, and my six-year-old daughter, Emma, who sat in the waiting room with my attorney’s assistant.

Like Noah’s asthma inhaler in my purse meant nothing.

Like Emma’s stuffed rabbit tucked under my arm was baggage.

Daniel’s phone rang at 2:19 p.m.

He answered softly.

“Hey, baby. It’s done. Tell Mom we’re heading to Northwestern now. Today we finally see our little heir.”

I picked up my purse.

The leather strap felt warm from my hand. My mouth tasted like mint gum and metal. The mediator’s clock clicked too loudly.

I placed the keys to our Lincoln Park house on the table.

“I moved our things out yesterday.”

Daniel smiled.

“Good. You learned.”

Then I pulled out Noah and Emma’s passports.

“Our flight to Madrid leaves at 4:05.”