I pick up the pen.
My hand trembles as I skim the documents. My name appears over and over again, attached to numbers and balances and responsibilities that feel impossible. My throat thickens. For a heartbeat, I imagine throwing the pen down, running out of the building, getting in my car and just driving until the road runs out.
But wherever I go, this will follow me. These debts, these choices, my name on all of it.
Better to face it now.
I press the pen to the first line and sign.
Each signature feels like a little death and a small birth at the same time. The death of the life I thought I’d have. The birth of… something else. Something smaller and harder and lonelier, but mine.
When it’s done, I set the pen down.
The mediator gathers the papers with efficient taps, aligning the edges with practiced ease. “All right,” she says, softer now. “That’s it. I’ll file these with the court. You’ll receive copies in the mail. If all goes smoothly, your divorce will be finalized in a few weeks. Once you get your copies you can go to the DMV and change your name back to Holley Truman per your request to revert to your maiden name.”
A few weeks.
Twelve years, reduced to a few weeks of processing time.
I nod. My chest is tight, but I can breathe. In, out. In, out. The air still goes in and out, even when I feel like it shouldn’t.
We stand. Chairs scrape against the floor.
He leaves first, not looking back. The door swings shut behind him, and just like that, he’s out of the room and almost out of my life.
I stay where I am for a second, hand on the back of the chair, grounding myself.
“You all right?” Denise asks quietly.
I think of all the things that are not all right. The stack of unpaid bills waiting on my kitchen table. The tiny one room cabin I’m moving into next month. The way I wake up at three a.m. and reach for a body that isn’t there anymore and feel both pain and relief when I find only cool sheets.
“No,” I say honestly. Then I straighten my shoulders. “But I will be.”
She studies me, then nods. “That’s enough for today.”
We walk out of the conference room together. The hallway is bright and bland. Phones ring somewhere in the distance, printers whir, life goes on. Outside, through the glass doors, I can see a slice of gray winter sky.
I push the door open and step into the cold.
The air bites my cheeks. I close my eyes and let the wind sting them, mingling with the tears that finally slip free. People hurry past, bundled in coats and scarves, carrying their own invisible burdens. None of them paying any attention to me and what I just signed away.
My life has shrunk down to something I barely recognize. A pile of debt, a small cabin, long workdays, and longer nights to sorting out what comes next.
But it’s mine.
No more waiting for someone else to grow up. No more hoping he’ll change, or that things will magically get better. No more building dreams on sand that erodes away with every changing tide..
My hands are empty now. No ring on my finger. No illusion in my pocket.
I wrap my arms around myself and take a breath that fills my lungs all the way to the bottom.
One step. Then another.
I walk toward my car, toward the rest of my newly complicated, terrifying, broken, open life.
I don’t feel strong yet.
But I’m still moving.
