During our divorce hearing, my husband laughed in front of the judge and called me his “pack mule,” claiming I’d contributed nothing to the restaurant we spent twenty years building.

I was forty-six years old.

My navy dress had been purchased for our daughter’s college graduation. My black shoes had been repaired twice, and the strap on my handbag had a small tear I had covered with matching thread.

I had spent twenty-two years helping build the restaurant that had made my husband wealthy.

Now, according to him, I was nothing more than a woman who had occasionally washed dishes.

Victor adjusted his cuff links and looked at me with the familiar mixture of amusement and contempt I had endured for years.

“Your Honor,” he began, “my wife contributed nothing meaningful to my business. She carried boxes, scrubbed floors, and occasionally helped in the kitchen when we were short-staffed.”

He paused, allowing his words to settle.

“She was a pack mule, not a partner.”

A quiet laugh escaped Melissa before she covered her mouth with her hand.

Victor smiled at her.