Once again, I sat beside my son to walk him through his computer science assignment, when without warning, he slammed his keyboard down with a furious crash. "Mom, your methods are completely obsolete!" he snapped. "Tamsin already showed me how to use neural networks to automate all the logic!" Instinctively, my gaze shifted toward my husband, Garrett, lounging on the sectional. I waited for him to speak up and intervene, like he used to, in my defense. He did not even look up from his screen. "Alden is right," he muttered. "Those legacy frameworks of yours should have been retired years ago." I parted my lips to argue, but froze the second my eyes fell across my son's desk. There sat a new framed photograph: a smiling snapshot of him standing shoulder to shoulder with Tamsin, Garrett's executive assistant. A cold numbness washed over me. In that single heartbeat, I realized with brutal clarity that no one under this roof remembered who I used to be. Not that I was once the top graduate in the entire engineering department. Not that Garrett had spent three relentless years pursuing me before I finally agreed to marry him. And certainly not that the proprietary core architecture anchoring his entire enterprise was something I had built, line by line, from scratch. That evening, I opened my laptop and accepted the senior architecture offer from the premier enterprise tech firm in the city. Then, I placed the signed divorce petition squarely in the center of the mahogany dining table.