Sometimes, late at night, I think about the woman I was at twenty-three.
The young woman who fell in love with an ambitious man.
Who believed they would build something extraordinary together.
Who worked late nights.
Invested her inheritance.
And celebrated every success as though it belonged equally to both of them.
I don’t regret her.
She was hopeful.
Hardworking.
And generous.
But I wish she had known something sooner.
Love should never require you to disappear.
Partnership should never mean surrendering your identity.
And marriage should never become a place where one person’s achievements are used to erase the other’s.
On that rainy Thursday morning, my husband entered Courtroom Six believing he had already won.
He had three attorneys.
A prenuptial agreement.
A mistress who laughed at me.
And a story he’d spent twelve years teaching the world to believe.
He said I had no money.
No career.
No business experience.
