A thin sheet of ice covered the driveway as I backed the car out of the garage.

My left arm throbbed inside the tight fiberglass, making it difficult to steer the wheel.

I drove slowly through the quiet suburban streets toward the city center.

The coffee shop on 4th Street was tucked between a dry cleaner and a small bakery.

Inside, the air was warm and thick with the steam of espresso machines.

Annika sat in a corner booth, her dark hair pulled back into a tight, professional bun.

She looked up as I approached, her sharp eyes scanning my face and the cast on my arm.

“You look tired,” she said, gesturing for me to sit.

“I didn’t sleep much,” I said, sliding into the vinyl booth across from her.

She pushed a steaming mug of black coffee toward me.

“Drink. We have a lot of paperwork to get through.”

From her leather briefcase, she pulled a thick manila folder.

She spread the legal documents across the dark wood table.

“These are the final divorce papers,” she said, pointing to the signature lines.