Chapter 9 - What We Were Ending
Three days after Adrian learned our daughter's name, Nina called about the next round of divorce documents. We had been talking so much about parenting that the marriage itself had become an unspoken shape between us. The legal process had not paused simply because our conversations had softened. There were disclosures to complete and property issues to work through; being kind to each other did not make the difficult parts disappear.
I went to Nina's office the next morning with a folder of financial statements and a list of personal belongings still at the mansion. She had obtained a fuller picture of our assets, though the details would take time to examine.
I wanted to keep Carter & Reed stable and my condo independent, while allowing the legal process to determine fair terms rather than relying on Adrian's preferences. Nina agreed we should resist the urge to settle hastily simply because birth was approaching.
"You don't have to decide what the rest of your life looks like this week," she reminded me. "But you do need to be truthful about what you want now." I admitted that Adrian had been different lately. He listened, kept appointments, respected my home, and asked questions about our child that had nothing to do with photographs or inheritance. Those were meaningful changes. They were not answers to whether I wished to remain married.
Later that afternoon, Adrian and I met at a quiet restaurant near my office. It was the first meal we'd shared since the dinner where he had announced the divorce. When the waiter brought water, I remembered cutting chicken while my husband waited for me to beg. Adrian seemed to remember too. He looked at the menu for a long time before closing it. "I owe you an apology for that night," he said.
"You've apologized," I replied. "I know. I haven't listened to what it did to you." I told him the deadline had frightened me less than the casualness with which he'd given it. He had looked at the home we'd made and spoken as though I occupied it by his permission. "I left the next morning because I could," I said. "I keep thinking about what would have happened if I couldn't."
He didn't answer immediately. "I would have had my lawyers reverse it," he said finally, then shook his head. "That's what I want to believe I would have done. It doesn't excuse making the demand. I can't tell you it wouldn't have hurt you if your options had been smaller." For once he refused to improve the memory with an imaginary rescue. His discomfort made room for mine.
We ate slowly and spoke about the early years, not to prove we should reunite but to understand why it hurt to let them go. Adrian remembered my habit of sketching on receipts at dinner. I remembered that he'd once stayed awake helping me sew curtains for the first apartment, despite having a flight at dawn. There had been affection in the marriage. Acknowledging it made the loss sadder and more honest.
"If you hadn't asked for a divorce," I said, "I might still be hiding how unhappy I was. That's not a compliment to either of us." He set down his fork. "Do you want to go ahead with it?" This time the question was not accompanied by an envelope, a deadline, or instructions about where I should live. I felt the weight of being allowed to choose.
"Yes," I said. "I think we should." His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, he asked whether I was certain enough to keep discussing practical terms through our lawyers. I said I was. "I care about you," I added. "And I don't want us to use the baby as a reason to pretend the marriage has healed." He nodded. "I don't want to make that bargain either."
I expected relief to feel triumphant. Instead I wanted to cry for the kitchen we had painted, the calls we hadn't made, the version of us that had never learned to argue without retreating. Adrian asked if he could hold my hand.
I let him for a moment, then drew it back when I was ready. There was no attempt to pull me closer. It was a farewell to something real, not a promise that love would solve what we hadn't solved together.
The following evening, I was folding Willa's tiny sleepers when a low ache tightened across my back. It eased, returned, and grew more regular while I made tea and tried to decide whether I was imagining a pattern.
I called the hospital's maternity line and described the contractions. The nurse asked several questions, reviewed when to come in, and encouraged me to follow the plan my medical team had given me. I put the kettle down untouched.
I called Evelyn first because she'd promised to drive if I needed her. Then I looked at Adrian's name on the phone. I had spent so much time deciding whether he deserved a place in this moment that I'd almost forgotten I could simply ask what I wanted. I wanted someone who already knew the complicated history to sit beside me while I did something frightening. I wanted him there if he could follow my lead.
When Adrian answered, I heard street noise behind him. "Is everything all right?" he asked. "I think I'm in labor," I said. "Evelyn's coming to drive me. You can meet us at the hospital, but please wait until I ask you in."
May you like
There was a sharp breath, then his answer. "I'll be there. I'll follow your instructions." Another contraction gathered, harder than the last. I leaned against the table where I'd signed the first papers for my own home and breathed until it passed.
I had no idea how long labor would take or what would happen once Willa arrived. I only knew I'd made the call myself. When the elevator opened and Evelyn hurried into the hallway, I took my bag, locked my door, and went to meet our daughter without giving anyone else the authority to decide what that moment meant.
