One year after my divorce, I ran into my ex-husband in the pediatric wing of the hospital where I worked

fine, that I was too old and had left it too late for my career.

I was thirty-two in 2018.

And in the complaint, in the May of 2023, he wrote that I had been “receiving treatment for mental health difficulties associated with infertility”, which is a sentence constructed to be almost true: I saw a counsellor at that clinic eleven times in 2019, as they recommend, as most people do, and I declared precisely nothing because there is nothing to declare.

He turned the eleven appointments where I was