Chapter 8 - We Signed the Divorce Papers Anyway
At twenty-four weeks pregnant, I signed the papers ending my marriage.
People later asked why.
They knew only fragments of the story by then. A public separation. Adrian stepping down. Dominic's legal trouble. Bianca disappearing from Chicago society. Rumors about an affair. Rumors about a baby.
From the outside, Adrian was changing everything.
He had moved out of our mansion and into a modest apartment near the lake.
He attended therapy twice a week.
He had surrendered day-to-day control of Romano Holdings to an independent board.
He had cooperated with reviews that cost him allies, contracts, money, and most of his uncle's affection.
He had not missed one approved prenatal appointment after I began allowing him to attend again.
He had learned the name of every medication Dr. Patel prescribed me.
He knew which crackers stayed down and which tea made my nausea worse.
He never brought either unless I asked.
That last detail mattered more than it should have.
He was learning that care offered without control felt different from care used as a claim.
But I still signed.
Because change did not resurrect trust on command.
Because I needed to know who Elena was when she was not Adrian Romano's wife.
And because I refused to make reconciliation the prize at the end of his redemption.
He had to become better even if I never came back.
We met at Margaret's office at three in the afternoon.
The final agreement was almost embarrassingly simple.
I kept my personal accounts and the small design company I had started before marriage.
Adrian transferred the Lake Forest property into a trust for the baby, but only after Margaret insisted it could not be used to influence custody.
I took no claim against his larger fortune.
He did not contest temporary sole physical custody.
We agreed to revisit parenting time after the birth.
There were no dramatic arguments.
No smashed glasses.
No lawyers shouting.
Just two people sitting at a polished table ending eight years with blue ink.
When Adrian finished signing, he placed the pen down carefully.
His hand remained on the table.
I looked at the silver wedding band on his finger.
He was still wearing it.
I looked at mine.
So was I.
Margaret cleared her throat.
"I'll give you both a few minutes."
She left.
Adrian stared at the papers.
"I thought I would feel something different."
"What did you expect?"
"Punishment."
I looked at him.
"Do you?"
"No." His eyes lifted. "I feel grief."
That was exactly how I felt.
I reached for my ring.
It resisted at the knuckle because pregnancy had changed my hands slightly.
Adrian stood instinctively.
"Do you need-"
I gave him a look.
He sat back down.
"Right. Sorry."
I almost laughed.
Then the ring slid free.
A pale indentation circled my finger.
Eight years compressed into a line on my skin.
I set the ring on the table.
Adrian looked at it but did not touch his own.
"You can keep yours," I said.
"I know."
"Then why are you still wearing it?"
He looked down.
"Because I'm not ready to stop being sorry."
My throat tightened.
"The ring isn't a punishment."
"I know."
"Then take it off when you're ready."
He nodded.
I stood.
"Elena."
I looked back.
"I don't regret signing," he said.
That hurt more than I expected.
He saw it immediately.
"No. That came out wrong."
"You're getting very good at saying that."
"I don't regret giving you the divorce because you asked for freedom after I broke the marriage. I regret making you need it."
I looked at him for a long moment.
"That's better."
"Marginally?"
"Don't get ambitious."
The corner of his mouth lifted.
We left separately.
That night, I cried into a pillow for an hour.
Then I ordered Thai food, sat cross-legged on the couch, and watched a terrible reality show until midnight.
At 12:03, my phone buzzed.
Not Adrian.
Dr. Patel's office.
A reminder about my glucose screening.
I laughed through my tears because life was rude enough to continue after heartbreak.
Three weeks later, Adrian and I attended our first childbirth class.
Not as husband and wife.
As parents.
Every other couple in the room seemed to have arrived in matching hope.
We arrived with separate cars and a custody agreement.
The instructor asked everyone to introduce themselves and say what they were most nervous about.
A young father said diapers.
Another said sleep.
A woman beside me said pain.
Then it was Adrian's turn.
He looked at me before speaking.
"Getting in the way."
The class laughed softly, assuming he was joking.
I knew he wasn't.
The instructor smiled.
"The support person's job is to help, not direct."
Adrian nodded seriously.
"I've been told."
I kicked his shoe lightly.
He looked at me.
For one second, we smiled at each other like we used to.
The moment passed.
But it happened.
After class, we walked toward the parking lot.
"Do you have dinner?" he asked.
I narrowed my eyes.
"Is that a custody question?"
"No. It's a food question."
"I have food."
"Good."
He kept walking.
"That's it?"
He glanced at me.
"You said you have food."
"You used to ask six follow-up questions."
"You hated that."
"I did."
"So I'm improving."
"Slightly."
He opened his car door.
I stood beside mine.
"Adrian."
"Yes?"
"What are you most nervous about? Really."
His expression changed.
"That our daughter will grow up knowing I hurt her mother."
My hand moved to my stomach.
"Daughter?"
He froze.
Then I smiled.
"Dr. Patel called this morning. The genetic screening included sex. I was going to tell you after class."
His entire face transformed.
"A girl?"
"A girl."
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, they were shining.
"A daughter."
"Yes."
He laughed once, almost helplessly.
"I'm in trouble."
"You have no idea."
He looked at my stomach as if he could see her through the fabric of my dress.
"Does she have a name?"
"Not yet."
"Do I get an opinion?"
"One."
"One opinion?"
"Use it wisely."
He smiled.
Then he sobered.
"Elena."
"What?"
"Thank you for telling me in person."
I looked at the man I had divorced three weeks earlier.
"You're her father."
His expression softened.
"I'm trying to deserve that sentence."
I got into my car before he could see how much it affected me.
At twenty-nine weeks, we chose the name Sofia.
At thirty-one weeks, Adrian completed an infant CPR course twice because he failed to remember one step the first time and apparently took that personally.
At thirty-two weeks, he assembled a crib at the Lake Forest house under Dana's supervision and without asking me once where the screws were.
At thirty-three weeks, the investigation into Dominic resulted in formal charges related to unlawful surveillance, harassment, and financial misconduct. Bianca agreed to cooperate.
At thirty-four weeks, Adrian's uncle Carlo publicly blamed me for "weakening" the Romano family.
Adrian responded with one sentence through counsel.
My former wife and daughter are not responsible for the consequences of my decisions.
He did not call me afterward to see whether I was impressed.
That mattered too.
At thirty-five weeks and four days, I woke at 2:18 in the morning with a headache so severe I could barely see.
By 2:46, Dana was driving me to the hospital.
By 3:10, Dr. Patel was standing beside my bed with a blood pressure reading that made her expression change.
"Elena," she said carefully, "we need to keep you here."
My heart started racing.
"Is Sofia okay?"
"Right now, yes. But your blood pressure is dangerously high. We're going to monitor both of you very closely."
I gripped the blanket.
"Call Margaret."
Dana already had her phone out.
Then Dr. Patel asked, "Is there anyone else you want here?"
I opened my mouth.
Adrian's name came out before fear could argue with me.
"Call Adrian."
The divorce became final on a gray morning in September.
The court clerk stamped papers that transformed me from Mrs. Adrian Romano into Elena Romano by legal choice rather than marriage. I kept the surname because it was mine after eight years and because it would be Sofia's.
Adrian never asked me to change it.
Afterward, we stood outside the courthouse beneath a stone archway while rain misted the sidewalk.
"Do you want coffee?" he asked.
I looked at him.
"Is that inappropriate after a divorce?"
"Probably."
"Then yes."
We walked to a cafe two blocks away.
For thirty minutes, we talked about the baby.
Names.
Car seats.
Whether a rocking chair was necessary.
Adrian argued yes because his mother had used one with Lucia.
I argued no because the nursery was already crowded.
He offered to remove a bookshelf.
I told him books outranked furniture.
He accepted defeat.
It was the least dramatic conversation of our marriage, and maybe the most hopeful conversation after it.
When we stood to leave, Adrian looked at my bare ring finger.
Then at his own.
His ring was still there.
He did not mention it.
Neither did I.
Outside, he held the cafe door open.
"Elena."
"Yes?"
"Happy is the wrong word, but... I'm glad you got what you asked for."
My throat tightened.
"Freedom?"
"The right to decide what happens next."
I nodded.
"Thank you."
We walked in opposite directions.
For the first time, that did not feel like an ending.
At thirty weeks, Adrian came to the house to help choose a car seat.
I had already narrowed the options to three.
He arrived with a spreadsheet containing seventeen.
I stared at him.
"No."
"You haven't seen the crash-test comparisons."
"No."
"There are meaningful differences."
"Adrian."
He looked at the spreadsheet, then at me.
"Three?"
"Three."
He deleted fourteen rows with visible pain.
I laughed so hard Sofia kicked.
Adrian froze.
"Was that her?"
I took his hand before I could overthink it and placed it against the side of my stomach.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then Sofia kicked again.
Adrian's entire expression changed.
Wonder erased everything else.
"She kicked me."
"She has excellent judgment."
Another kick.
His eyes filled.
He did not move his hand until I moved mine away first.
That restraint mattered.
Later, after we chose the least offensive car seat on his spreadsheet, he assembled it in the garage and read the manual twice.
I stood in the doorway watching him.
Once, his competence had made me feel secure.
Then his arrogance had made competence dangerous.
May you like
Now I was learning there was a third version: competence with humility.
It was much harder not to love.
