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“Yes,” I say, and pass him the salad bowl from the counter. “Green bin and the recycling are out.”
“Thanks,” he says, smiling at me with the easy warmth of a man who has absolutely no idea his wife just spent an hour discussing the dissolution of their marriage with a stranger. “How was your day? Besides the traffic.”
I look at him across the table, at the man who held my hand through twenty-three hours of labour, who cut the twins’ umbilical cords with shaking hands, who sat with me in the NICU and promised everything would be okay. The man who sent explicit photos to a woman while I counted our daughter’s breaths.
“It was fine,” I say, and take a sip of my wine. “Nothing special.”
The gap between those two versions of my afternoon, the law office with its grey walls and detached explanations, the kitchen with its warm light and Daniel’s casual question, is so enormous I nearly laugh. But I don’t. I just cut my chicken into small pieces and ask if he wants more bread, and somewhere in the space between those two sentences, I make a decision.
I’m going to find a lawyer who actually gives a damn.
***
The second firm occupies the ground floor of a converted Victorian style terrace house three streets over from the high street, with exposed brick walls and a waiting room that smells aggressively of lavender thanks to a diffuser pumping mist into the air at a rate that feels medically concerning. A woman in her early thirties with a geometric haircut and a bright yellow dress greets me at the door with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just discovered both yoga and motivational podcasts and is determined that everyone else should have the same life-changing experience. “You must be Elsie,” she says, reaching for my coat before I’ve had a chance to take it off. “We’re so excited to meet you. Rose has been telling everyone about your consultation all morning.”
That is, I realize immediately, not a good sign.
“She has?” I ask, watching as she hangs my coat on a hook shaped like a unicorn.
“Oh yes,” she says, nodding so emphatically her earrings, tiny silver stars, catch the light. “She said your case is the type of work she’s passionate about. Complex, emotionally nuanced, and really compelling narratively.”
It takes me a moment to translate this from Wellness Retreat into English, but when I do, the meaning is crystal clear: my husband’s betrayal, the dissolution of my marriage, the future of my five-month-old twins, it’s all just a story to them. A particularly juicy one.
The waiting room is decorated in what I can only describe as Millennial Therapist Chic, a white sofa with too many throw pillows, a coffee table made from a slab of what might be actual tree, and a gallery wall of inspirational quotes rendered in a font that suggests the designer had a stroke halfway through. I sit on the edge of the sofa, careful not to sink too far into the cushions, and wait for Rose to appear.
She does so two minutes later, bursting through the door with the energy of someone who’s just finished watching a particularly rousing legal drama and is determined to bring that energy into the real world. She’s in her early forties, with dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail and a pair of statement earrings that look like they were designed by someone who’s only ever seen chandeliers in movies. Her suit is expensive but slightly too tight, her heels just a fraction too high for comfort, and her smile seems to say that enthusiasm is mandatory.
“Elsie!” she says, crossing the room with her hand already extended. “I’m Rose. It is so wonderful to meet you. Thank you for coming to us.”
The consultation room is more of the same, exposed brick, white furniture, and a desk that looks like it was purchased from the same place as the coffee table, possibly carved from the other half of the tree. Rose gestures to a chair across from her desk, a white upholstered thing that looks like it belongs in a Scandinavian furniture catalogue, and sits down, leaning forward with her elbows on the desk.
“So,” she says, her voice dropping to what I assume is her serious lawyer tone. “You mentioned on the phone that your husband has been unfaithful?”
I nod, suddenly aware that I’m going to have to say the actual words. “Yes. Multiple women. It started when I was pregnant with the twins and… “
“And you found evidence?” she interrupts, her eyes lighting up. “Messages? Photos?”
“I found a notification on his phone,” I say, the words feeling both too small for what they’re describing. “From someone called JazzyGirl. When I looked, there were hidden apps with messaging platforms and a hookup thing.”
Rose leans forward, her expression suggesting I’ve just described the plot of a particularly riveting true crime podcast. “Hidden apps,” she says, her voice low with what sounds disturbingly like excitement. “Oh, that is fascinating.”
The word lands like a slap, fascinating, not horrifying or devastating or any of the other adjectives that might actually apply to the situation. Fascinating, like I’ve described an unusual bird sighting or an interesting documentary rather than the complete destruction of my marriage.
“The messages go back to when I was pregnant,” I continue, watching her face carefully. “And then…“ I pause, the next part still hard to say despite having practiced it several times. “Then I found messages from when the twins were in NICU. He was texting one of the women about when they could meet up.”
Rose’s eyes widen, her lips parting slightly. “While your children were in intensive care?” she asks, and there’s something in her voice, not sympathy or outrage but something closer to appreciation, like I’ve just delivered an especially juicy plot twist.
“Yes,” I say, my stomach turning. “He sent her a photo from the hospital bathroom. While I was sitting with our newborns.”
“This is genuinely one of the more compelling cases I’ve seen this year,” Rose says, making a note on the pad in front of her. “The NICU detail is particularly powerful. That’s going to resonate with the judge.”
It takes me a moment to process what she’s just said, that my daughter’s struggle to breathe, my son’s jaundice, the worst moment of my life, is “powerful” and “compelling” to her. A detail that will “resonate with the judge,” like we’re discussing a character in a novel rather than actual human beings.
“I have screen recordings,” I say, my voice coming out steadier than I expected. “Of everything.”
“Excellent,” Rose says, nodding enthusiastically. “Those will be very helpful. Judges appreciate clear documentation.”
I sit in the white chair, watching Rose make notes on her pad, and it hits me that this is not going to work. This woman with her statement earrings and her performative empathy sees my life as content, a story to be packaged and presented, complete with dramatic reveals and emotional beats timed for maximum impact. She doesn’t see me, or the twins, or the fact that this is not a plot but my actual existence. She sees a case. A compelling one.
