It was just like IVF, wasn’t it? Divorce? A whole cottage industry designed to make her feel like she had control of her life, like she could maybe have a second chance at it, when she did not. When she could not. It was a business. A machine. And every time it chewed her up and spit her out, there’d be yet another woman—shit out of luck, with a little money to burn—waiting in line.
