Snow fell relentlessly that December night, covering the city in a blanket of white and erasing every footprint. I huddled in a bus shelter, wearing a thin beige dress, my body shivering in the freezing cold. Beside me lay a worn canvas bag containing a sweater, old photographs, and divorce papers—my name typed neatly on the first page, a cruel symbol of a marriage that had ended abruptly.
Just hours earlier, my husband had handed me those papers. Three years of marriage vanished in a single sentence: “Get out of my house.” Not our house—his house.
The divorce wasn’t just about separation; it was about being deemed worthless because I couldn’t fulfill one expectation he had for me. My body had failed him, and with it, my self-worth seemed to collapse. I was alone, my family distant, friends gone, and the women’s shelter full. My savings could only cover a week in a cheap motel.
I watched the snow erase other people’s footprints when small voices broke the silence.