I signed the final paperwork at the dining room table because I couldn’t bear one more trip downtown in heels for the ceremonial burial of my former life. Through the open windows came the smell of roses and cut grass and the low mechanical hum of a pool vacuum. I had once thought this house represented adulthood. Stability. Arrival. Now it felt like a beautifully staged set from which the actors had finally been dismissed.
A week later I met Grant one last time at the mediation office to finalize the divorce.
He looked older than six months. Men who build themselves around reflected wealth do. Once the mirror cracks, age finds them quickly.
We signed in silence for a while. Pens scratching. Pages turning. My attorney on one side, his on the other. The mediator explaining clauses in a voice so neutral it could have narrated weather satellites.
Then, when the attorneys stepped out to review one last addendum, Grant spoke.
“Are you happy?”
I kept my eyes on the page. “That’s a strange question from you.”
“I’m serious.”
I looked up.