Chapter 7 - The Divorce Papers
Our divorce hearing was scheduled for January.
The night before, I didn't sleep.
I sat in my apartment surrounded by boxes because I had sold the townhouse exactly as Meline requested.
A young family bought it.
They had no idea what happened there.
I preferred that.
The proceeds went into the bereavement fund.
Meline named it The Blue Hat Project.
When Rachel told me, I had to leave the room.
The next morning, Manhattan was covered in snow.
Meline arrived at the courthouse wearing a charcoal coat and black gloves.
She looked stronger than she had in Maine.
Not healed.
Grief does not work like broken bone.
But stronger.
We sat on opposite sides of a conference room while attorneys reviewed final terms.
There was almost nothing left to dispute.
Then Meline's lawyer said, "Mrs. Vance would like five minutes privately with her husband."
Everyone looked surprised.
Including me.
When the room cleared, Meline remained by the window.
I waited.
Finally she said, "Are you sure?"
"About what?"
"The divorce."
I almost smiled from disbelief.
"You filed."
"I know."
"I won't fight you."
"That's not what I asked."
I stood.
"What are you asking?"
She turned.
"Do you want this?"
The honest answer came quickly.
"No."
Her eyes filled.
"But wanting you isn't the same as having a right to keep you."
She looked down.
"I thought today would feel easier."
"It doesn't?"
"No."
I swallowed.
"Meline, if you want the divorce, I'll sign."
"And if I don't know?"
That changed everything.
I forced myself not to move toward her.
"Then don't decide for me."
She looked at me.
"I'm scared."
"I know."
"What if I forgive you and you do it again?"
"I can't promise you'll never be hurt."
"That's not what I asked."
"No."
I drew a breath.
"I can promise I won't cheat again."
"You promised that at our wedding."
The words landed.
"You're right."
"So why should this promise matter more?"
"It shouldn't."
She frowned.
"Then what are we doing?"
"I don't know."
For once, I didn't invent an answer.
"I can tell you what I've changed. Therapy. Work. Boundaries. The company. But none of that creates certainty."
I stepped closer, stopping several feet away.
"You would have to decide based on who I become over time, not what I say today."
Meline wiped one tear.
"That sounds suspiciously healthy."
"Dr. Greene is expensive."
A laugh escaped her.
Small.
Unexpected.
Beautiful.
I hadn't heard her laugh around me since before Noah died.
Then guilt crossed her face.
"I feel horrible laughing."
"Why?"
"Because he's dead."
I understood.
I had felt the same the first time I enjoyed food again.
The first time I laughed at something on television.
Grief made pleasure feel disloyal.
"He doesn't need us miserable to prove we loved him," I said.
Meline stared at me.
"Where did you hear that?"
"Support group."
Her eyebrows rose.
"You joined a support group?"
"Three months ago."
"For fathers?"
"Parents."
"You never told me."
"It wasn't for you."
That mattered.
I saw it register.
She sat.
"So what happens if we don't sign today?"
"We leave married."
"And then?"
"Whatever you want."
"No."
She shook her head.
"Not whatever I want."
I sat across from her.
"What do you want?"
"I want rules."
I almost laughed.
"You always loved rules."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
She counted on her fingers.
"No living together."
"Okay."
"No sex."
"Okay."
"No gifts designed to overwhelm me."
"Okay."
"No private investigators, no surprise appearances, no telling newspapers we're reconciling."
"Absolutely."
"You don't get to use Noah every time we're struggling."
My chest tightened.
"Never."
"And if you lie once—"
"I understand."
"No."
She met my eyes.
"If you lie once, even about something small because you think the truth will upset me, I'm done."
I nodded.
"Then I don't lie."
She looked at me for a long time.
"Counseling."
"Together?"
"Yes."
"I'll be there."
"And we don't call this reconciliation."
"What do we call it?"
"Information gathering."
Despite everything, I smiled.
Meline almost did too.
We postponed the divorce for ninety days.
The news leaked within hours.
Speculation exploded.
I made no statement.
Neither did Meline.
Our first counseling session was terrible.
Meline cried.
I became defensive.
She accused me of using therapeutic language like a shield.
She was right.
Our second session was worse.
The therapist asked Meline whether she wanted the marriage or feared losing the history.
She walked out.
I didn't follow until the therapist told me to.
Our third session changed something.
The therapist asked, "Meline, what do you miss?"
She stared at the floor.
"The man who used to make pancakes at midnight."
I froze.
She continued.
"The man who knew I hated elevators but never teased me about it."
Her voice broke.
"The man who cried when our first IVF cycle failed."
I looked down.
"And Damen, what do you miss?"
"Her trust."
Meline's face tightened.
The therapist waited.
I corrected myself.
"That's selfish."
"What do you miss about her?"
"Everything that had nothing to do with me."
Meline looked up.
"Her terrible singing. Her habit of buying books faster than she reads them. The way she argues with GPS directions. The way she cries at videos of soldiers coming home to dogs."
A tear rolled down her cheek.
"I miss how she puts cinnamon in coffee even though she always sneezes."
Meline laughed through tears.
"And I miss Noah."
The room went silent.
"I miss a person I never met."
My throat closed.
"I miss wondering whether he would have been quiet like her or impossible like me."
Meline covered her mouth.
"I miss teaching him things."
I cried.
"I miss getting to be his father instead of just being the man who failed to show up when he was born."
Meline moved first.
Not into my arms.
Just closer.
Her hand rested on the cushion between us.
I looked at it.
Then at her.
She turned her palm upward.
I placed my hand in hers.
It was the first time we had touched since before I walked out of our dining room.
Neither of us spoke.
May you like
We held hands for less than a minute.
It felt more intimate than everything I had done with Elena in eight months.
