When the tip of my pen finally touched the fibrous paper of the divorce decree, the wall clock in the mediator's office struck exactly 10:03 a.m. It was a sterile, strangely profound moment. There were no movie tears, no grand dramatic outbursts, no visceral agony I had spent months imagining. Instead, there was only an immense silence resonating in my soul, the kind of stillness that comes after a long, grueling siege.
My name is Catherine. I'm thirty-two years old, the mother of two beautiful, confused children, and, as of five minutes ago, David's ex-wife. He was the man who once whispered promises of eternal refuge against my skin, only to trade that refuge for the cheap thrill of a secret life.
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I had barely lifted my pen when David's phone exploded with ringtone. The ringtone was unmistakable, a melody I had come to loathe. He didn't even bother to keep up appearances. Right there, in front of me and the stony-faced mediator, his voice shifted to a nauseating sweetness I hadn't heard from him in years.
"Yes, it's over. I'm on my way now," she murmured, avoiding my gaze. "The checkup is today, right? Don't worry, Allison. My whole family will be joining us there. After all, your son is the heir to our legacy. We're going to see our boy."
The mediator pushed the final copies toward him. David didn't even read them. He scribbled his name in a rough stroke and dropped his pen on the desk with a practiced disdain.
