He opened his mouth, then closed it again as if no words in the world could make it out. I got into my car, started the engine, and drove away. In the rear view mirror, he stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, watching me. He grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared behind the curve of the road.
I went home, changed clothes, cooked a simple lunch. Then I called my mother. It’s done, I said when she answered. Official. Official. Yeah. How do you feel? I thought for a moment. Free. My mother was silent for a few seconds. Good. You deserve that.
In the weeks that followed, bits of news about Wyatt trickled back to me through acquaintances. Sarah, a coworker who knew someone at Wyatt’s job, pulled me aside. I heard Wyatt’s not doing well lately. I’m not keeping track. I said he’s living with Ashley now in that townhouse. Neighbors keep complaining about shouting. Police came twice last week. I see. Sarah studied me. You really don’t care anymore, do you? No, I said. That’s enough.
Someone else mentioned Ashley posting a long rant before deleting it within an hour. Another said she kicked Wyatt out then took him back after he begged. I listened the way I listened to patients families sharing stories with empathy but without attachment. Their choices, their consequences. I made mine and I was living in the quiet peace of that choice.
Two months after the divorce ruling, my mother and I went to look at apartments. I had already sold the old one. We found a place in West Ashley, high ceilings, sunlight flooding the rooms, wooden floors that didn’t creak, and a small balcony overlooking a park. A place that felt like a real beginning.
During the marriage, I had let many relationships fade. Wyatt didn’t like me going out. Didn’t like me needing anyone but him. So, I slowly shrank my world to fit inside his. After the divorce, I started texting friends again. Slowly, cautiously.
