“If you want the children, take them. They’re only holding me back from starting over.”
Adrian Castillo said it barely five minutes after we signed the divorce papers, with the same indifference someone might use when talking about getting rid of old furniture instead of speaking about Noah and Lily, our children.
I sat across from the attorney’s polished walnut desk in a sleek office building downtown, watching the man I had spent ten years married to answer his phone with a smile I hadn’t seen directed at me in a very long time.
“Baby, it’s done,” he said, standing before the lawyer had even finished organizing the paperwork. “Yeah, I can still make the appointment. Today we finally get to meet the future heir.”
The heir.
Not “my son.” Not “our baby.” Just heir, as though the Castillo family were royalty instead of a toxic group of people pretending money made them important.
