Brent did not answer.

He stood frozen, his eyes darting between the man and the thick envelope in his hand.

“He is Brent Sterling,” Jennifer said, her voice calm and level.

The man stepped forward, slipping the white envelope into Brent’s gloved hand.

“You’ve been served,” the man said.

He turned without another word, his boots squeaking on the snow as he walked back to his idling sedan.

The car door slammed shut, and the headlights swept across the brick front of the house as he backed down the driveway.

Brent stared down at the envelope in his hand.

The paper was thick and white, his name printed across the front in stark, black ink.

“What is this?” Brent asked, his voice shaking.

“Those are divorce papers, Brent,” I said.

My voice sounded quieter than I expected, but it did not shake.

“You can’t do this,” he whispered, looking up at me. “Tessa, we have a daughter.”

“I am aware of our daughter,” I said. “She is sleeping upstairs, where it is warm.”

Jennifer stepped forward, tapping the blue folder she held in her own hand.