Barely

On the morning of our divorce, my husband was not fazed one bit. In typical “steamroller” fashion — the term I used for his belief that he could always manipulate his way into getting what he wanted — he accosted me as I walked toward the courtroom doors. “You don’t have to do this, hon,” he pleaded, like a last-ditch love scene out of a rom-com. But this time I didn’t fall for…