He went line by line, patient, precise: house in Moraine (primary marital asset; equity to be split), the joint checking and savings (trace the deposits, freeze the account from any surprise withdrawals), Chase’s 401(k) and pension track (QDRO—Qualified Domestic Relations Order—filed if needed; “Don’t worry about the acronym; that’s on me,” he’d said with a small smile), my tiny retirement from the accounting firm (barely a blip, but it’s still a piece on the board), the cars (titles, current value), the shared credit card (close it; we’ll divide responsibility based on dates of use). He even asked about furniture, and I told him about the coffee table we bought from that antique shop the summer we first moved back to Moraine—the one with the drawer that sticks and the carved elk antlers on the legs. Not because I want the coffee table. But because I ramble when I’m nervousand he wanted to know if I had any sort of attachment to things that might surprise me later.
I didn’t. Not to objects. Not anymore.
“Spousal maintenance,” he continued, “is not a punishment. It’s a tool. You’ve been the lower earner the last few years. The court looks at need and ability to pay, length of the marriage, standard of living, both parties’ earning capacities. We’ll run the numbers. We don’t posture; we present.”
He saidweevery time. Not you. Not I.We.
I thought the word would make me feel small—like the person with the law degree was creating the illusion of partnership to get me to sign things. It didn’t. It made me feel… held? Not in a romantic way. In asomeone competent has the wheelway. My mother likes to sayJesus, take the wheelwhen she’s overwhelmed.
Well,Jake, take the wheel. Because I sure as hell don’t know what I’m doing. I’m glad he does.
At one point, I’d blurted, “I don’t want to ruin him.” It came out too fast, too raw, right in the middle of something he was saying, and Jake nodded like I’d just solved for x on a chalkboard and he’d been waiting for me to catch up to myself.
“Good,” he said. “We’re aligned. We don’t litigate vengeance. We litigate clarity. And if we can do this without court? We do. If not, I know that road, too.” His mouth twitched. “But I don’t leave people limping. Your husband won’t leave with nothing. He’ll leave with what’s fair. So will you.”
I exhale. My shoulders drop. I hadn’t realized they’d been lodged up by my ears since noon.
This—this is why I hired him. Because while he can be heavy-handed if someone forces him there, he also respects the reality of a shared life. He isn’t going to turn our last decade together into a bloodbath just to spike a win percentage. I never wanted that. I want clean. I want done. I want to sleep again without waking up with my molars clenched.
I flip the legal pad to the next page. My own notes look like astranger’s handwriting—not because the actual writing looks any different, but because the words don’t feel like my own. The act of getting divorced is still so foreign and unfamiliar.Gather tax returns (last 3 years). Bank statements (12 months). Retirement plan statements. Car titles. House deed. Itemize furniture only if it’ll matter to me emotionally later—(it won’t). Passwords—already changed, but double check.A doodle of a tiny box labeled “marital property” with a stick figure version of me climbing out.
I should feel better.
I do. A little.
The clock still ticks. The heat still clicks on, then off. On again.
Skye’s not home—closing the coffee shop, probably doing a latte art competition with herself and talking to regulars about their dogs. The whole apartment feels like a waiting room. Waiting for, what? Who even knows.
And then, because it always happens, the ache sneaks in. The missing.
Yes, I still miss him. Every. Single. Day.
Does it make sense? No. And also, yes.
It isn’t the missing of who Chase is now. I’m not that delusional. It’s the missing of the man I married—the boy with the cocky grin who I tutored in tenth grade, who kissed me behind the gym like I was his nerdy little secret, who told me he loved me and meant it. The man in college who wanted to marry me and build a life with me.
Where did he go? Was he ever truly there, or am I remembering glimpses of reality but not the whole picture?
That’s what terrifies me—constantly wondering if my own memories are lies. If I distorted reality because I saw potential instead of an actual person standing in front of me each day. Was our love a lie? Our marriage a farce? Was it real? The connection? The intimacy? Or was it all fabricated, forced. Held together by the sheer will of a fifteen-year-old girl who saw a beautiful,broken boy who needed someone,anyone, to love him, and she thought that person could be her.
Come here, broken boy. I’ll love you. I’ll make it all better.
I mourn for her naivety. The hope she had for the future—fortheirfuture, together.
I wonder if he’s okay. What if he’s not okay?
I pick up my phone. Set it down. Pick it up again. It’s pathetic.I’mpathetic.
Chase’s name stares back at me from the screen. The photo is from years ago—Denver weekend, rooftop bar, sun in his eyes, squinting smile. I should change it. I should delete it. I should do anything besides what I’m about to do, which is tap his name like my thumb has a mind of its own.
Would he even answer?
Of course he’ll answer. He wants me to come home.
Would he be happy if I called?
Do I care if he’s happy? I don’t want him to be unhappy. I also don’t know that I care about making him happy. He can be happy, but I don’t have to be the one who made it happen. It’s not like I was ever any good at contributing to his happiness before.
