Chapter 2
Monday at the courthouse, the divorce waiting period forms lay side by side on the deep courthouse windowsill.
James finished his quickly and slid the paper toward me.
He was using that Montblanc pen.
The limited edition I'd waited in line for three hours to buy last Valentine's Day.
When I handed it to him, he barely glanced at the pen itself. "Keep the box. I'll put it in the office," was all he said.
So the pen, the gift I'd agonized over choosing, became just another tool he carried around every day, gripped carelessly in his hand without a second thought. No special regard, no particular care.
But that elegant, empty box? That he kept. Displayed neatly in his office, a polished prop for maintaining appearances. Now, the irony finally sank in.
Picking up the cheap courthouse ballpoint, I signed my name.
The clerk took the forms and said flatly, "Thirty-day waiting period. Come back after to finalize."
Outside, a sharp November wind cut through my coat.
I pulled my coat tighter around me.
This coat was two sizes too big, loose and black, draping over me like a banner.
Susan had picked it out for me two months ago.
"It's to hide your belly. Who's gonna notice?" she'd said, squatting outside the fitting room at the mall, handing me another oversized option.
James stood by the parking lot, hands in his pockets, watching.
"Need a ride?" he asked.
"I'm fine." I called an online car-hailing service on my phone.
He took a step closer. "Claire... have you put on some weight lately?"
"My heart gave one hard, sudden beat, just for a moment.
"Maybe I've been eating more," I said.
The car pulled up, and I opened the back door.
Right before getting in the car, I glanced back over my shoulder.
It wasn't out of sentimentality.
I just wanted to lock in this scene—him on the courthouse steps, the autumn wind tangling his hair, his face wearing an expression I'd never seen in three years of marriage.
It wasn't sadness. It was confusion.
He was confused because I wasn't acting the way he expected.
*****
On the third day of the waiting period, I was packing up my things in the master bedroom.
The clothes in the walk-in closet were arranged in four rows, sorted by season.
The two rows on the left were mine, the two on the right belonged to James.
I had lost count of how many times I had ironed his shirts.
Light blue for business occasions, white for meeting clients, gray for overtime.
The collars and cuffs were always spotless—not a single wrinkle.
I took down my two rows of clothes, folded them neatly, and packed them into suitcases.
It wasn't much. Two suitcases were enough to hold everything I'd brought into this apartment over three years of marriage.
What I was leaving behind told a different story.
The framed print from the antique market that hung in the living room—I'd chosen it.
The row of pothos plants lining the balcony—I'd tended them.
The woven basket under the coffee table, the neatly labeled spice jars in the kitchen, the toiletries arranged by purpose in the bathroom.
All my work, my touch.
But they didn't belong to me. They belonged to the apartment.
When my phone rang, the screen showed James' mother, Linda Carter's name.
After a brief hesitation, I answered.
"Claire, I heard you two are going through with it." Her voice came through, light, almost cheerful.
"Yes," I replied.
"It's just as well. You're young, so finding someone new won't be a problem," Linda said.
She paused, her tone dropping slightly. "By the way, that credit card under your name—the one with the 15 thousand limit? Once you pay it off, remember to close the account."
Silence was my only reply.
The card was all in my name, all on my limit, and over the past three years, I'd spent about 60 thousand dollars.
Out of that, 40 thousand went to Linda's wellness classes and health check-up packages.
"Alright. If there's nothing else, I'm hanging up," I said.
After hanging up, I crouched down next to my suitcase and just stayed there for a while.
It wasn't sadness I felt. It was a sudden, surprising lightness—like shedding a heavy, invisible weight I'd carried for too long.
The baby gave another gentle kick.
I looked down and whispered, "Don't worry, sweetheart, Mommy's taking you away."
On the fifth day of the waiting period, James showed up at the apartment.
He stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, staring at the open suitcases on the floor, but never stepped inside.
James asked, "You're really leaving?"
I nodded, "Yeah."
"Where are you moving?" James asked.
"I'm staying with a friend," I replied.
He leaned in the doorway, as if he was waiting for something.
I kept packing, tucking the half-read book from the nightstand into my suitcase.
Suddenly, he said, "Claire, do you think I've wronged you?"
I straightened up and looked at him. "James, this divorce was your idea," I said.
He stayed silent for a long moment before finally saying, "My mom mentioned you've been..."
"It doesn't matter what your mom says," I replied.
I zipped up my suitcase and continued, "What matters is how you see it."
He started to say something—but stopped himself.
Without another sound, he turned and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet, careful click, like he didn't want to disturb anyone.