The attorney's name was Patricia Holt.

Her office was on the fourth floor of a building downtown, with a window that looked out over a small park.

She was in her early sixties, direct, and she did not waste time on pleasantries.

"Walk me through the timeline," she said.

"Start from the marriage ending."

I walked her through it.

The divorce, four years ago.

The job loss three months later.

The two-bedroom apartment with my sister.

The night shifts at the pharmacy.

The slow rebuild.

I laid the envelope on her desk and she went through the screenshots page by page without expression.

When she reached the last page, she set it down and looked at me.

"The scholarship attempt is significant," she said.

"It establishes pattern and intent.

It shows this wasn't a single impulsive act.

It was repeated, deliberate conduct over a period of years."

"What are my options?"

"Tortious interference with employment is the primary claim.

You lost a position, income, and career trajectory as a direct result of a false representation made to your employer by a third party." She tapped the notarized statement.

"With this, you have a named witness who was present at the time and is willing to testify.

That is not a small thing."

"What about the scholarship attempt?"

"That strengthens the pattern.

It may not produce a separate damages claim, but it tells a story about intent.

Juries respond to stories." She leaned back.

"I want to be straightforward with you.

Litigation is slow and it costs money.

But your position here is strong.

The documentation is unusually clean.

And the fact that she attempted this twice suggests she believed she could do it without consequence."

"She did believe that," I said.

"For four years, she was right."

Patricia looked at me steadily.

"She wasn't right.

She was just unchallenged." She picked up a pen.

"Are you prepared to challenge her?"

I thought about the lobby.

Michael in his graduation gown.

Diane handing me a document she had carried for four years.

David's face when he finally looked at his wife and didn't recognize her.

"Yes," I said.

Patricia wrote something on her notepad.

"Then let's begin."

I walked out of her building at half past eleven and stood on the sidewalk for a moment in the pale morning light.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Michael.

*How did it go?*

I typed back: *She's taking the case.*

Three dots appeared.

Then: *Good.

Call me tonight?*

*Yes.*

I put my phone in my pocket and walked to my car.

Three blocks away, my phone buzzed again.

A number I didn't recognize.

I almost didn't answer.

"Carol?" It was a man's voice.

Careful.

Uncertain.

"Yes."

"This is David."

I waited.

"I moved out this morning," he said.

"I'm staying at my brother's.

I wanted you to know — not because I expect anything from you, but because I thought you deserved to hear it." A pause.

"I also want you to know that whatever you decide to do legally, I won't stand in the way.

If they need a statement from me about what Chloe told me about your job loss at the time, I'll give it."

I stood beside my car with my keys in my hand.

"That would be helpful," I said.

"I'll have Patricia's office reach out to you."

"Okay." Another pause.

"How is Michael?"

"He's good," I said.

"He's really good, David."

"I know." His voice was quieter now.

"I'm going to fix things with him.

I don't know how long it takes.

But I'm going to fix it."

I didn't make him a promise I couldn't keep.

But I said, "He's worth the effort.

He always was."

I heard David exhale.

"I know," he said again.

"I know he was."

We said goodbye and I got in the car.

I sat there for a moment with my hands on the wheel.

Then I started the engine and drove.