Z

Our final divorce hearing was scheduled for April 8.

I didn't sleep the night before.

At three in the morning, I stood beside Sophia's crib and stared at my daughter.

She was seven months old.

Seven months since the worst night of my life.

Seven months since Vincent walked out of the hospital.

Six and a half months since I walked out of our marriage.

I had spent all that time telling myself divorce was necessary.

I still believed it.

Mostly.

That was the problem.

At nine thirty the next morning, Rebecca met me outside the courtroom.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“Professional observation.”

“Can I change my mind?”

She stopped.

“About what?”

“The divorce.”

Rebecca studied me carefully.

“You can.”

My heart pounded.

“Even now?”

“Until the decree is entered, there are options.”

“I don't know if I want to.”

“Then don't make the decision because you're frightened of regretting either choice.”

“That's impossible.”

“No, it isn't.”

“How?”

“Ask yourself which decision you can live with even if Vincent never changes another inch.”

I stared at her.

That was the question.

Not whether Vincent had changed.

Not whether he loved me.

Not whether I still loved him.

Could I live with being married to the man he was today?

And could I live with knowing the man he had been?

Across the courthouse, Vincent sat beside Paul.

“You can still contest aspects of this,” Paul said.

“No.”

“You could request additional time.”

“No.”

“Do you want the divorce?”

Vincent looked at him.

“No.”

Paul nodded.

“Then why are you sitting here?”

“Because she asked for it.”

“That may be the least Moretti sentence ever spoken.”

Vincent didn't smile.

When we entered the courtroom, our eyes met.

He looked tired.

So did I.

The hearing itself was painfully ordinary.

Names.

Dates.

Financial agreements.

Custody provisions.

The judge reviewed everything.

Then she looked at me.

“Mrs. Moretti, you understand that entry of this decree will legally dissolve your marriage?”

My mouth went dry.

“Yes.”

“And this is what you want?”

Silence.

Rebecca looked at me.

Vincent did not.

He stared straight ahead.

The judge waited.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Something inside my chest cracked.

The judge nodded.

Then she looked down at the documents.

“There is an administrative issue with one of the financial exhibits.”

Rebecca frowned.

“What issue?”

“Schedule C references an attachment that isn't included in the electronic filing.”

Paul checked his papers.

“We have a copy.”

The judge shook her head.

“It needs to be properly filed. I can continue the matter for fourteen days.”

Fourteen days.

My heart stopped.

The judge set a new date.

April 22.

Then we were dismissed.

Outside the courtroom, Rebecca said, “I'll fix the filing today.”

I nodded.

Vincent passed several feet away.

He didn't stop.

That hurt.

I told myself it shouldn't.

Then I saw him enter the stairwell instead of taking the elevator.

Something inside me moved.

“Rebecca.”

“Yes?”

“I'll call you.”

I followed him.

Vincent was one flight down, standing beside a window.

His hands braced against the sill.

“Vincent.”

He turned quickly.

His eyes were red.

I had seen my husband furious.

Cold.

Bleeding.

Victorious.

I had almost never seen him cry.

“Why are you here?”

“I don't know.”

He laughed once.

“That's reassuring.”

“I said yes.”

“I heard.”

“You didn't look at me.”

“I couldn't.”

I stepped closer.

“You said you'd let me go.”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean it?”

His face tightened.

“No.”

I stopped.

“But I'll do it.”

Tears burned my eyes.

“Why?”

“Because loving you isn't supposed to be a reason to control you.”

That sentence nearly destroyed me.

I covered my face.

“Claire.”

“Don't.”

He stopped moving.

“I hate this.”

“So do I.”

“I hate that you changed.”

His voice broke.

“I know.”

“If you were still the man who left me in that hospital, this would be easy.”

“Yes.”

“But you're not.”

“No.”

I lowered my hands.

“Why couldn't you be this man before?”

He shook his head.

“I don't have an answer that makes it hurt less.”

We stood in the courthouse stairwell crying over a marriage that technically still existed.

Finally, Vincent said, “Maybe you need to divorce me.”

I stared.

“What?”

“Maybe the marriage we had needs to end.”

“That's an interesting argument from someone who doesn't want a divorce.”

“I don't.”

He stepped closer but kept distance between us.

“But if you stay because I finally learned how to behave after hurting you badly enough, maybe we'll spend the rest of our lives wondering whether you stayed because you forgave me or because you were afraid to leave.”

My chest tightened.

“What are you suggesting?”

“That you finish what you started.”

I stared at him.

“And then?”

He looked at me.

“Then, if you ever want me again…”

His voice dropped.

“You can choose me without being trapped by vows I already broke.”

I couldn't speak.

Vincent gave me the saddest smile I'd ever seen.

“Fourteen days.”

“Vincent—”

“I'm not asking you to change your mind.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“Nothing.”

He walked toward the stairs.

“That's the first thing I'm finally learning.”

He left.

I stood alone.

That afternoon, I found an envelope outside my apartment.

Inside was my wedding ring.

The ring I had left in the penthouse months earlier.

There was no plea.

No dramatic letter.

Only a note in Vincent's handwriting.

This belonged to the woman who married me.

If you ever wear a ring from me again, I want it to belong to the woman who chooses me knowing exactly who I am.

I sat on the floor and cried.

Fourteen days suddenly felt much too short.