Instead, I was learning to sleep alone again, to cook for one person, to fill the silence that had once been filled with shared conversation and laughter.
Pride makes us say things our hearts never meant.
The divorce was finalized on a Tuesday morning in October, exactly six months after the night I’d compared David to my ex-boyfriend.
We met at the courthouse to sign the final papers, our first face-to-face encounter since that awful conversation in Mike’s parking lot.
David looked better than he had then.
He’d gained back some weight, and the dark circles under his eyes had faded.
We were polite to each other, business-like in our interactions with the court clerk and lawyers.
The whole process took less than an hour, reducing two years of marriage to a stack of legal documents.
Afterward, we stood outside the courthouse for a moment.
Two people who had once shared everything, now struggling to find something appropriate to say to each other.
