In the middle of our divorce hearing, my husband mocked my 20 years working at his restaurant and said, “You were just a pack mule.” I didn’t scream

I unbuttoned my gray jacket.

Victor’s smirk twitched.

Underneath, I wore a sleeveless cream blouse. Slowly, I turned my left arm toward the courtroom. An old burn scar stretched from my shoulder to my elbow, pale and shiny like melted wax. Then I lifted the edge of my blouse near my ribs just enough to show the long surgical scar from the night the industrial mixer injured me because Victor had removed the safety guard to “speed up production.”

Melissa stopped smiling.

Victor’s lawyer leaned forward.

“You told everyone I fell at home,” I said calmly. “You told the insurance company I was never on payroll. You told the hospital I was only your wife helping for fun.”

Victor’s face hardened.

“That has nothing to do with marital assets.”

“No,” I said. “It has everything to do with fraud.”

Grace stood beside me and placed a thick blue folder on the table.

Victor looked at it for the first time.

And for the first time in twenty years, I watched fear appear in his eyes.