I didn’t cry. God, I didn’t even blink. I just walked to the door, picked up the bag of store-bought cookies I had brought—they hadn’t even been opened—and left.

The snow was falling thick and slow when I stepped outside. It clung to my lashes, but it couldn’t disguise the heat rising in my chest. Not from the cold, not from shame—from clarity.

I drove home in silence, hands shaking the whole way. I didn’t turn on the radio. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t even pray. I just replayed it over and over: her voice smug and sharp, my son spineless and still, the rest of them pretending I wasn’t even there. But it wasn’t the words that broke me. It was the way they all agreed without saying so.

When I got back to my apartment, I didn’t collapse into sobs. I didn’t pace or drink or scream. I hung my coat, set the cookies on the kitchen counter, and sat at the small table by the window. I stared out at the night, at snowflakes swirling like they had nowhere to be—like I didn’t either.

And that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t sad. Not really. I was done.