"Was that her?"
"Yep."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing new. Just confirming she's still allergic to accountability."
He snorted beer through his nose.
"You're savage."
"I'm honest," I said. "There's a difference."
Later that night, I walked home alone.
City lights bouncing off the pavement.
The kind of quiet hum that only exists when something heavy finally lifts off your shoulders.
I passed a bakery that used to be our Saturday morning spot.
The smell hit me.
Warm bread.
Sugar.
Nostalgia.
But this time it didn't hurt.
It just was.
I stopped outside, watched a couple laughing inside, and smiled.
Not the bitter kind.
The real kind.
Because despite everything, I'd survived it.
Back home, I changed into sweats, grabbed Milo's leash, and took him for a late-night walk.
He sniffed every bush like it owed him money, tail wagging like life was simple.
Maybe he was on to something.
"Buddy," I said, "we did it. Court's over. Freedom reinstated."
He barked once approvingly.
When we got back, I poured myself one last drink, sat on the couch, and turned on some background jazz.
The same kind Tar had used in the video.
Fitting soundtrack for the credits.
I stared at the ceiling, replaying the moment the judge said the words, "Mr. Carver retains ownership."
That phrase was going to live rent-free in my head forever.
Unlike Belinda.
I raised my glass in a mock toast to the empty room.
"Here's to honesty, loyalty, and knowing when to lawyer up."
Milo jumped on the couch beside me, resting his head on my leg.
I ruffled his fur.
"We're going to be fine, kid. Turns out justice has good taste."
Before turning in for the night, I texted Mrs. Delgado one last time.
Thank you for everything. You made the process painless.
She replied within minutes.
It's never painless, Mr. Carver, but it's always worth it.
I smiled, shut off my phone, and sat there in the quiet.
For once, it wasn't the lonely kind of quiet.
It was peaceful.
Divorce court wasn't supposed to be funny.
But that day, it had been a comedy.
The kind where the villain trips over her own script, the audience applauds, and the protagonist walks off into the sunset holding a stack of legally binding happiness.
When I finally crawled into bed, I didn't dream about her.
I dreamed about pancakes, passports, and possibilities.
Because tomorrow wasn't a continuation of the past.
It was the pilot episode of something entirely new.
A month after the courtroom grand finale, peace had finally become my favorite background noise.
No drama.
No emotional invoices.
Just me, Milo, and the occasional Netflix binge that didn't involve marital infidelity.
Life was smooth until Belinda's sister Lydia sent me an invite that read:
Family gathering. Be civil. It's her birthday.