Tuesday, October 25, 2022

I was beginning to think it would never happen, that the promise I made to my mother would never come true. I’d become okay with it, actually. Time had passed, I wasn’t getting any younger, as they say, and I came to think that my life was fine just the way it was.

You have redefined everything for me, Lauren. You have shown me what is possible. You’ve made me realize how much more I wanted from life.

I promise you this: I will do everything I can to make sure our child feels loved and protected. I will give you and our child everything I’m capable of giving.

You didn’t even have to say it, Lauren. Everything is different now. I’m editing the divorce petition right now. My lawyer needs me to fill in some personal information and details, but I’ll be sure to get it ready and filed before—yes, before—November 3.

Wednesday, November 2, to be precise, the day before, just one day before D-Day, Anniversary 10. I already have the date locked in with my lawyer. He couldn’t do it earlier, but that’s okay, one day before is just as good as one week before. We will finalize the divorce petition and file it.

It feels good, locking that in, cementing the plan.

You’re right, Lauren, about everything. I shouldn’t have to settle. I shouldn’t have to settle for someone who doesn’t love me. I shouldn’t have to settle for someone who refuses to have children.

And I shouldn’t have to give Vicky half the money. It’s not her money. It’s our money. Yours, mine, and the baby’s.

And you’re right about when I should break this to Vicky.

“Tell her after you’ve filed,” you said to me.

That hadn’t been my plan. “I shouldn’t tell her beforehand?”

“File it first,” you said. “Then tell her. Trust me.”

I guess that’s the old adage, right? Better to seek forgiveness than permission.

—

As I finish the entry in my green journal, I tap my phone to see the time.

“Oh, shit.”

It’s after seven. I’m late, very late for my eight a.m. class. I guess I got caught up in what I was doing.

I hurry out of the office, pass the bedroom, and peek in. Vicky is still asleep, a slight whistle in her breathing.

I do wish things had been different.

53

Vicky

I wake from a nightmare, the sound of an anguished cry fading away as I open my eyes. I pop up in bed and grab my phone. It’s nearly nine in the morning.

I stretch, use the bathroom, and walk out of the bedroom. Down the hall, the light is still on in Simon’s office. I can’t help but smile. He knows how much I hate wasting electricity, how much I pinch pennies, a vestige of years of living payday to payday. Sometimes, I think he leaves on lights just to needle me, a little joke.

I go downstairs to the kitchen. There is coffee, the remnants of a pot that Simon made when he first got up at the crack of dawn. Usually, he makes a fresh thermos that awaits me when I get up. And usually, his travel mug is gone.

This morning, no fresh coffee. And his travel mug is resting on the kitchen island, top off, empty. He must have lost track of time and hurried out the door. I thought I heard him bounding down the stairs in a rush. Simon hates, hates, hates being late.

I make my own coffee and carry a cup upstairs. Glance at that light on in Simon’s office.