Eighteen years ago, my husband threw us away like garbage because our son was disabled.

I smiled pityingly.

Old habits are hard to break.

Mark always considered himself a king – even when he didn’t have a castle.

“So be it, Sarah. Think of it as pre-show entertainment. Return to your station.”

Sarah nodded and hurried away.

I took the briefcase to a small, empty conference room.

I sat down in the swivel chair and placed my briefcase on the shiny glass table.

My heart was pounding – not with fear, but with anticipation.

This was the moment I had been waiting for.

The moment when I could look into the depths of my ex-husband’s life without him knowing.

I slowly opened the briefcase.

The first page contained his personal information.

Name: Mark Peterson.

Age: 48 years old.

Occupation: self-employed.

Classified as unstable.

Address: rented apartment in a run-down part of the city.

I knew this area.

The neighborhood is prone to flooding – a world away from the luxurious home he boasted about when he kicked me out.

My gaze moved to the other side.

Medical history.

I read the diagnosis line by line from the ER doctor who saw him last week before referring him here.