The Palm Court Divorce

Margaret adjusted her straw hat against the merciless Mexican sun, watching Richard serve across the padel court. His backhand had improved since she'd left him—six months of therapy apparently did wonders for one's tennis game, if nothing else.

"Your serve," he called out, all casual confidence. As if they were still partners at the firm, not soon-to-be ex-spouses sharing a goodbye vacation because their therapist insisted on closure.

The palm trees swayed in the breeze, indifferent witnesses to what was supposed to be their amicable final chapter. Richard had suggested the trip. Margaret had agreed, mostly to prove she could survive five days with him without screaming.

She hit the ball back. Hard.

"You've been practicing," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The way he used to wipe away her tears, she thought bitterly.

"I've been busy. Building my own practice. No thanks to you."

The padel ball cracked against the glass wall, echoing like a gunshot. Richard flinched.

"Maggie, can we—"

"Don't call me that." She adjusted her hat, needing its brim to hide her eyes. "You forfeited the right to pet names when you decided my career was 'too ambitious.'"

A silence stretched between them, heavier than the humid air. Then Richard walked to the net, leaned his forehead against it.

"I hired someone else," he said quietly. "At the firm. A woman. She's brilliant. Reminds me of you, before—"

"Before you broke me?" She laughed, dark and humorless. "That's your closure? Replacing me?"

"Before I broke us," he corrected. "I'm trying to be better, Maggie. Not for us. For whoever comes next."

She considered his words, the palm fronds casting shadows across her face.

"Alright then," she said, tossing her hat aside. "Play to win. Like you mean it."

They played until sunset, until their bodies ached and the truth stood between them like the net: some games, once lost, can never be won back.