I straighten in my chair. My spine aches, my throat burns, but I force myself to sit up.
Denise glances at me, eyebrows raised in silent question. You okay?
No. Not even close.
But I nod anyway.
“I want to move forward,” I say, and my voice, to my own surprise, doesn’t shake. “Whatever needs to be done to finalize this, I want it done.”
The mediator studies me. “Are you sure? We can take a break if you?—”
“I’m sure.” I look at him then, really look. “I don’t want to be married to him anymore. I’m not dragging this out.”
His eyes flash with something—annoyance? Disappointment that I’m not begging? He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something cutting, then seems to think better of it.
The mediator nods slowly. “All right, then. Let’s see what we can agree on today.”
We go line by line. My car. His old truck, which “isn’t running” and “isn’t worth anything” but somehow cost two grand to modify. The furniture. The old TV.
The numbers stack up in front of me like bricks. By the time we’re done, I feel like I’m sitting at the bottom of a well, looking up at the circle of pale office light far above me.
“All right,” the mediator says finally, capping her pen. “I’m going to step out and make copies. Take a few minutes. If you’re both still in agreement, we’ll sign everything when I get back.”
She leaves the room with a shuffle of papers. Denise excuses herself to make a call during this break. The door clicks shut behind them.
Silence falls.
It’s just me and him, like so many times before in all the small, quiet moments of our marriage. Only now there’s nothing tying us together except ink and signatures and a shared history that suddenly feels like it belongs to someone else.
He exhales, long and dramatic. “Well,” he says, “you got what you wanted.”
I turn my head. “What I wanted?”
“A divorce.” He taps his fingers on the table. “You’re dumping me and walking away with the house, the good job, everything. I’m the one starting over from scratch here.”
A weird, strangled sound bubbles in my throat. Is he serious?
“The house?” I echo. “Did you listen to anything she just said? The house is underwater. It’s not an asset, it’s a sinking ship. I’m taking on debt, not some prize.”
He rolls his eyes. “You always did like playing the martyr.”
Anger flares again, hot and clean. For a moment, it overwhelms the fear.
“You cheated on me,” I say, carefully, like I’m explaining something to a stubborn child. “You lied to me. You left me with a stack of unpaid bills and a credit score in the toilet. I kicked you out because I finally realized I deserved better. That’s not martyrdom. That’s survival.”
His jaw works. He looks away.
I lean forward, folding my hands so he can’t see them shake. “And you know what? For the first time since you walked out with that duffel bag, I’m glad we never had kids.”
His head snaps back toward me. “Wow. Cold.”
Was it a low blow? Maybe. I know he wanted kids, but I really am grateful that after today we can go our separate ways.
“No,” I remark quietly. “It’s real.” I swallow. “They would have been the ones stuck in the middle of this mess. They would have felt every lie, every missed visit, every disappointed birthday. I wanted to be a mom more than anything, and I’m still grieving that. But I’m glad I’m only dragging myself through this and not a little person who didn’t ask for any of it.”
He says nothing, but his mouth twists.
The door opens before he can respond. The mediator comes back in with a stack of papers and a careful smile. “All right,” she says brightly. “If you’re both ready, we can sign.”
