Both cars stayed with their respective drivers. But every signature felt like another nail in something she had assumed would last forever. Halfway through, Betty whispered, Do you really want this? I want peace, I said. This is how I get it.
Her breath caught. She wasn't angry, just hollow. Derek finished explaining the timeline. Once these are filed, there's a waiting period. Usually about 3 months.
After that, the divorce becomes final. Betty nodded again, slower this time. She was crumbling in pieces she tried to hide. When the meeting ended, she followed me into the hall. Randy, she said softly, can I come home tonight?
Just for one more week. Just until I find a place. You already did, I said. She went still. What?
I had the locks changed Sunday. Your things are in storage. The apartment you applied for called me this morning. You got it. Her chin trembled.
You planned everything. No, I said. I just stopped waiting for you to care. She let out a quiet broken sound and leaned against the wall as if the reality finally hit her all at once. The marriage was over.
Not in theory, not in threat, in paperwork, in action, in truth. Betty's new apartment sat above a laundromat on Oak Street. Small place, peeling paint, nothing like the home we built together. She moved in with two suitcases and a box of shoes. And for the first time since the night she walked out in that black dress, she looked truly alone.
In the weeks that followed, the fallout hit her harder than she expected. Crystal stopped hanging around once the drama started. She texted Betty twice, then disappeared back into her nightlife. The so-called club crowd that made Betty feel exciting suddenly had no interest in the woman who wasn't fun anymore. Frank vanished almost immediately.
No calls, no messages, not a single attempt to check on her. The second he saw she wasn't sneaking around with a husband at home, he lost interest. Meanwhile, I rebuilt my routine. The house felt different, quieter, lighter, like the walls finally relaxed. I slept through the night without waiting for the sound of Betty coming home late.
I started running again in the mornings, something I had stopped doing when our arguments drained the air out of the days. I reconnected with old friends I hadn't seen in years. People said I looked calmer. I felt it. Betty sent a message every few days, not begging, not bargaining, just small apologies.
"I'm sorry for how I treated you. I'm trying to fix myself. I know I don't get another chance." Sometimes I replied with short, polite responses. Sometimes I didn't reply at all.
She no longer held the power to pull me into an emotional tug-of-war. I wasn't cruel, just done. One afternoon, about 6 weeks after she moved out, I ran into her at the grocery store. No makeup, hoodie, hair in a messy bun, pushing a half-empty cart. She froze when she saw me.
"Hi, Randy." She said quietly. "Hey." I replied. She looked me over, my posture, my face, the easy way I stood.