I never told my cheating husband that I was nominated to the Supreme Court.
He served me divorce papers at dinner,
laughing with his mistress.
“I’m taking the house and the kids.
You’re just a weak paralegal.”
He didn’t know his mistress was actually an embezzler on the run.
The police stormed the restaurant.
She screamed, “Call your lawyer!”
My husband looked at me, pleading for help.
I stood up, put on my robe from my bag, and smiled.
“I don’t defend criminals,” I said. “I sentence them.”
“I don’t defend criminals,” I said,
smoothing the black fabric over my shoulders. “I sentence them.”
But before I could deliver that verdict,
I had to survive the silence.
