The phone struck my cheekbone, bounced off my shoulder, and hit my mother's hardwood floor with a sharp, sickening crack.

Three weeks passed in relative silence.

I spent those three weeks immersing myself in work. I took on a major contract for a high-budget gothic horror series filming in Atlanta, creating twelve custom decayed wardrobes and seven specialized latex prosthetics. My workshop was filled with the familiar, comforting sounds of sewing machines, airbrushes, and classical music.

Without the constant drain of Lauren’s financial emergencies and my mother’s emotional guilt-trips, my life felt oddly, beautifully quiet.

David handled the legal separation with surgical efficiency.

The credit card company accepted the fraud affidavit after reviewing the text messages and financial logs, removing the twelve-thousand-dollar balance from my profile and opening a formal fraud investigation against Lauren.

My name was successfully removed from her car insurance and utility accounts. The lender holding her business loan released their floating lien on my workshop equipment after David presented proof of non-authorization.

Then, on a rainy Thursday afternoon, David walked into my workshop carrying a thick manila envelope.

“Settlement offer,” David said, setting the envelope on my cutting table.

I looked up from a silicone mold I was pouring. “From whom?”

“Lauren’s court-appointed attorney,” David said, sitting on his usual wooden stool. “Her UFO channel completely died. Her sticker store went bankrupt. She’s facing misdemeanor fraud charges for the credit card, and the bank is foreclosing on her SUV.”

I set my mixing beaker down, feeling a strange, hollow sensation in my stomach. “And what’s the offer?”

David opened the envelope and pulled out a three-page document.

“She agrees to sign a full release of all financial claims against you, enter a diversion program for the fraud charges, and complete court-ordered parental management classes,” David read. “In exchange, she wants you to waive the remaining six thousand dollars she owes you for the utility back-payments and sign a non-disparagement agreement.”

“What about Madison?” I asked softly.

“Madison is currently in court-mandated youth counseling,” David said. “Her school guidance counselor saw the TikTok video and filed a report with child protective services regarding emotional exploitation by the mother. She’s staying with your Aunt Clara on weekends.”

Aunt Clara was my father’s sister—a sensible, no-nonsense retired schoolteacher who lived on a small horse farm two hours away.

“How is Madison doing at Clara’s?” I asked.

“Clara says she’s currently shoveling horse stalls, cleaning tack, and learning that actions have immediate, physical consequences,” David smiled slightly. “Apparently, without a smartphone and an audience, she’s actually showing signs of becoming a decent human being.”

I looked out the workshop window at the rain falling through the trees.

I didn't feel triumph. I didn't feel revenge. I just felt a quiet, solemn sense of closure.

“Tell her attorney I’ll sign,” I said.