Page 21 of Broken Vows

“Hey,” he whispers.

I sink into a chair across from him, my legs too weak to hold me up anymore. The distance between our chairs feels like miles.

A door opens. “Mr. and Mrs. Kline?”

The walk to the lawyer’s office is a blur. Jeremy lets me go first–always the gentleman, even now. Even at the end.

Mr. Davis’s office is all dark wood and leather, certificates lining the walls. He gestures for us to sit in the two chairs facing his desk. The leather creaks as I sit, and I focus on that sound, on the feel of the smooth armrests under my fingers, anything to keep from looking at Jeremy.

“I have the final papers here,” Davis says, pulling out a thick folder. “We’ll go through them page by page.”

The next hour is torture. Every paragraph is another nail in the coffin of our marriage. Property division. Bank accounts. Insurance policies. Jeremy’s voice is steady as he asks questions about retirement accounts and car titles. How can he be so calm?

My signature looks wrong on each page, shaky. I have to stop twice, close my eyes, breathe deep. Jeremy’s cologne–the same kind he’s worn since college–fills my nose with each breath. Another thing I’ll have to learn to live without.

“And if you’ll initial here,” Davis says, pointing to another line. “And here.”

Each scratch of pen on paper feels like a cut.

Jeremy signs his portion without hesitation. His hand was steady, sure. When did he become so sure about ending us?

“That’s everything,” Davis says, gathering the papers. “The divorce will be final once processed by the court. We’ll notify you both when it’s complete.”

Just like that. Five years of marriage ended in an hour of signatures and legal jargon.

Outside, the August air bites at my cheeks. It’s barely noon, but it feels like days have passed since I sat in my car this morning. Jeremy stands awkwardly beside me on the sidewalk, hands shoved in his pockets.

“So,” he says.

“So,” I echo. The wind whips my hair across my face, and I’m grateful for the excuse to brush it away, to hide the trembling of my hands.

Last summer, we’d spent weekends getting the yard together, making it look nice. Being silly and spraying water at one another because of the heat. Now we can barely look at each other.

“I’ll have my brother help me get the rest of my things this weekend,” he says. “When you’re not home.”

I nod, throat too tight for words. He takes a step toward his truck, then pauses.

“Take care of yourself, Lex.”

Before I can respond, he’s gone, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. My legs give out, and I sink onto a nearby bench, no longer caring who might see me fall apart.

I don’t know how long I sit there, watching cars pass, watching lives continue as if the world hasn’t just ended.

Two weeks pass in a blur.Lilly practically moves in, filling my empty house with chatter and forced normalcy. She’s there the day Jeremy’s brother helps him move out the last of his things. She’s there when I finally take off my ring.

“We should do something,” she announces one evening, sprawled on my couch. “Mark the occasion.”

“What, like a divorce party?” The words taste bitter.

“No, like… a new beginning ritual. Something symbolic.”

That’s how we end up in my backyard at midnight, burning old photos in a fire pit. Not all of them–I’m not ready for that. Just the duplicates, the ones that hurt too much to look at.

“To new beginnings,” she says, raising her wineglass.

I raise mine too, watching the flames consume another memory.

A monthafter the divorce is final, I wake up and realize I haven’t cried in three days. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.

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