After Bobby left, I called Uncle Jack, asking for permission not to come to the restaurant. “I have something to take care of,” I said briefly.
I went to the civil registry office with determined steps. When I arrived, I filled out the divorce application form. Each letter I wrote was a small step toward freedom.
The clerk at the counter looked at me sympathetically as I handed her the document. “Are you sure, ma’am?” she asked softly.
I nodded. “There’s nothing left to save.”
But my journey didn’t stop there. I continued to the immigration office to change my passport. The name on the form was no longer the old Irish. I chose a new name, a symbol of the new life I would build without Bobby.
“Two weeks from now, you will no longer be a citizen of this country, ma’am,” the clerk said as she handed me my new identity papers.
Irish's POV
When I arrived home, the house was eerily silent. Bobby wasn’t back yet. My eyes were drawn to the guest room door, which was slightly ajar. My steps faltered for a moment before my legs involuntarily moved closer, as if a magnet was pulling me toward it. There, I was met with a reality I had never wanted to face.