She arrived with a leather portfolio, dressed in a navy blazer and soft-soled flats that didn’t make a sound on my hardwood floors. I half expected her to be cold or clinical, but her eyes were kind and didn’t stare at the scarf on my head.
We sat at the kitchen table. I had to take breaks between sentences, my body still aching from the last round of treatment. Ruby didn’t rush me at all.
“We file under a no-fault basis,” she explained gently, flipping through her papers. “In our state, that means you’re not legally required to prove wrongdoing. You just have to state that the marriage has irretrievably broken down.”
“That’s it?” I asked, blinking slowly.
“It’s cleaner,” she said. “It protects your privacy, and honestly, it’ll keep things simpler. Especially if he’s not contesting it.”
“He won’t,” I said. “He left without even pretending to fix it. And I’m pretty sure that his mother will be overjoyed. She’s hated every moment of my illness.”
Ruby hesitated, then slid a blank sheet across the table.
“I’d like to document any ways this experience has impacted you — physically and emotionally. Just for my records, Nora. You don’t have to write it now, but whenever you’re ready.”
I picked up the pen slowly.
“I’m tired all the time,” I said. “I feel like a ghost in my own house. I can’t taste anything, and I keep dreaming about being left behind. And not just by Garrett — by everyone.”
“Write that down,” Ruby said, her face softening. “All of it. It matters.”
We finished the paperwork within the hour. Ruby gave me a copy and a small, reassuring smile.
“I’ll handle the rest,” she said, standing. “I’ll be in touch soon. You just rest.”
The papers were filed that same week. Garrett didn’t argue. He didn’t even ask to talk. There were a few short emails, a scanned signature, and a final automated confirmation that it was done.
It was strange — all that hurt and history distilled down to PDF attachments and legal jargon.
But it was the distance I needed. When their ‘birthday trip’ was over, Garrett went to his mother’s house, not even bothering to pick up the rest of his things. Evelyn probably promised to buy him everything he needed.
And then karma showed up.
On the third week post-divorce, I was half-asleep on the couch when my phone began buzzing. Message after message from my friends:
“Nora… did you see the news?”
“Turn on the TV, Nor! Right now!”
“This is unreal. Serves that good-for-nothing man, right!”
I clicked on the first link my friend, Holly, sent me. It was a grainy video, but unmistakable, and dated to a few weeks back. Garrett and Evelyn were standing in the middle of a flooded resort lobby. Their luggage was soaked, their clothes were wrinkled, and they looked as unhappy as they could possibly be.
Apparently, a pipe had burst in the resort’s luxury wing. Their suite was ruined. Evelyn’s designer shoes and handbags were all destroyed. Naturally, my mother-in-law caused a scene — yelling at the manager, threatening to sue.
“They were the worst guests we’ve had this season,” a staff member said.
The footage spread just far enough. Friends started whispering. Mutual acquaintances shared the clip on social media. And though it wasn’t front-page news, the embarrassment was enough to sting.
They were banned from returning. I heard that Evelyn’s booking deposit was lost and that they were stranded without transport in a remote corner of the country.
I yawned, wondering what Garrett was going to do next… which was when my phone buzzed with a text from him.
“Can we talk? Please, Nora?”
I stared at the message for a long time. And for once, I didn’t feel upset or conflicted.
“No, Garrett. There’s nothing to talk about. You made your choice.”
He reached out again, once. It was a short email asking to talk again and asking for the recipe for my chili tofu.
What followed next wasn’t glamorous. There was no montage of me “getting my life back.”
There were hard days. Lonely days. I journaled, even when I had nothing to say but “I’m still here.”
I bought a houseplant. I let the sun touch my face again. I took walks, starting with five minutes and ending at 50 minutes. I volunteered once a week at the community center, just folding brochures or stuffing envelopes.
I wasn’t chasing happiness. I just needed proof that I could move again.
“Okay. Ten minutes today,” I told the sidewalk on my first walk. “Just ten.”
Eventually, it turned into twenty. Then fifty. Then a soft smile when the sun hit my face.
Eventually, I was in remission — a place in my journey that I wasn’t sure I’d ever see.
Then came Caleb.
I met him at a fundraiser. He was working the registration table, fumbling with name tags and mumbling under his breath when the Sharpie dried up. I almost walked past, but then he looked up and smiled at me like we already knew each other.