The day I took my former company to court, HR stopped me in the corridor and said a sentence: Do you know how many people are in our legal department? I said twelve. She said no, it's thirteen. The thirteenth is your ex-husband.

My ex-husband is the legal director of that company. When we divorced, he didn't fight over property, only one thing— the non-compete agreement I signed. He said this agreement is still valid within two years after I leave, and if I go to a competing company, he will pay the penalty for me. I said we are already divorced. He said the law doesn't consider that.
Later, he really sued me. Not the company, but him personally. He took me to court, claiming I violated the non-compete agreement and demanding compensation. I sat on the defendant's bench, watching him wear the suit I bought for him, using the legal clauses I taught him to accuse me. He said you signed this agreement during our marriage, and it is still valid.
I said, when we divorced, you said you didn't want anything except the children. He said yes. This agreement is nothing, it’s you.
The court ruled against me. The judge said the non-compete agreement does not expire due to divorce. I paid him a sum of money, not much, enough to pay his mortgage. The day I left the court, he stood on the steps, looking at me, and said a sentence that I remember to this day: The first lesson you taught me back then was that contracts don't recognize feelings.
I didn't look back. Later, I made a copy of that compensation receipt and sent it to his mother. Attached was a note: The first lesson you taught him was that men should be responsible. Now, it seems I taught well, but you didn't.
His mother replied with two words: Sorry.
I didn't reply again. Last month, he got drunk at the law firm's annual meeting and told colleagues that the thing he fears most in this life is not losing a case, but his ex-wife looking at him in court with the same eyes as when she taught him the legal clauses. A colleague asked him what about now. He said she no longer teaches me; she’s at the neighboring law firm, one level higher than me. Then he finished his drink, flipped through a memo and found an old note with a photo of a handwritten appeal material I wrote back then: This case shouldn't be handled by her alone. Her tears have been stored in arbitration court for a long time, and now she just brings them back.