“Take your time,” the clerk says gently.
I nod once, though time is the one thing I’m done pretending I need more of.
I read the line again even though I already know what it says. I’ve read it a dozen times. I’ve lived it longer than that.
My name. Her name. Legal language that tries to make something emotional sound clean and final. Dissolution. Agreement. Mutual consent.
I sign.
The clerk slides the next page forward. “Initial here as well.”
I do, my initials smaller than my signature, like shrinking it will make it less real.
She flips another page. “And here.”
I initial again.
Another page. Another line.
I hate how efficient it is. How the end of a marriage fits into a rhythm.
The clerk keeps her tone calm, but she glances up at me once, like she’s checking whether I’m about to crack. “You okay?”
I almost give her the polite answer. Almost.
Instead I breathe out and let the truth be simple. “I will be.”
She nods like she understands that’s the best anyone can offer in a room like this. “That’s usually the right answer.”
The pen moves smoothly across the page, my signature practiced, controlled, nothing like the mess I feel underneath it. When I finish, I don’t feel relief. There’s no rush. No sudden lightness. Just a quiet, grounding sense of truth settling into place.
This is done.
I slide the papers back across the desk.
The clerk gathers them, checks each page, and flips the stack once like she’s making sure nothing can come loose. “You’re all set. We’ll file these today. You’ll receive confirmation in about a week.”
I nod, because my throat feels too tight for anything else.
She pauses with the papers in her hands, like she’s deciding how human she’s allowed to be in a room like this. “Do you need a copy for your records, or are you set?”
“A copy please,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
She slides one page out, stamps it, then sets it in front of me with a small, practiced movement, like she’s done this a thousand times and still knows it matters. “This is just confirmation that it was signed today. The rest will come once it’s processed. It should take about a week.”
I pick it up and stare at the date like it might change if I look long enough. Midmorning. A random weekday. The kind of day that looks identical to every other day on paper.
“Any questions?” she asks, still polite, still neutral.
I almost laugh at that. Questions are all I have. I just don’t think this is the place for them.
“No,” I say. “I’m good.”
Her expression softens again, something sympathetic flickering across her face before she schools it back into professional calm. “Okay. Take care.”
The sound of the door closing feels louder than it should, echoing once before the quiet settles back in. No voices. No movement. Just the faint hum of the building’s HVAC and the soft tick of a wall clock I hadn’t noticed before.
I don’t move right away.
