Chapter 2: Divorce Terms and Goodbye

When Derek came out after his meeting, I had already finished eating, cleaned the kitchen, and was watching a Netflix drama in the living room—as if nothing had happened.

I sat cross-legged on the couch, absently flipping through channels. The TV’s glow cast strange shadows on the walls, and the scent of lemon dish soap still lingered in the air. I focused on the on-screen laughter, letting it fill the silent spaces in my mind.

He went to take a shower. Halfway through, he realized there were no towels and subconsciously called out from the bathroom:

"Babe, where’s my bath towel?"

His voice echoed down the hall, familiar and out-of-place. It almost made me laugh—this small remnant of our old routine, crumbling away like an old post-it note.

I didn’t look back. "It’s already packed in your suitcase. If you don’t mind, use mine for now—I’ll toss it later."

I heard the water shut off. The silence stretched on, heavy as a storm cloud. I wondered if he realized how final my words sounded.

A long silence answered me.

It was the kind of silence that says more than any shouting ever could. The air between us was thick with things unsaid.

When Derek came out, he saw three suitcases at the entryway. He sat across from me and slid the divorce agreement back with his finger.

He looked lost, maybe for the first time in years. His suitcases looked awkward against the familiar backdrop of our living room. I waited, hands folded in my lap, trying not to show how hard I was shaking inside.

"I can give two million up front for child support, and pay the rest monthly..."

His voice was measured, like he was discussing business terms. I watched his hands—those hands I’d once trusted with my heart—fidget with the edge of the paper.

I interrupted, "No need. Just pay it all at once. I think she wouldn’t want you contacting me again either."

I looked him dead in the eye, daring him to argue. I thought about Linda and the way women talk in whispers at school pickup lines—how everyone always seems to know what’s going on before you do.

Derek looked confused. "He’s my kid too, Rachel. I get a say in how he grows up. I know this is my fault. I’m willing to compensate, but you don’t need to use our child to threaten me."

He sounded defensive, like a man clinging to his last shred of dignity. I felt a twinge of sadness, but mostly I just felt tired. So tired.

I paused the show and looked at Derek seriously.

I picked up the remote, muted the TV, and stared him down. My heart thudded in my chest, but my voice was calm, even.

"Cheating is your fault. It’s only right for you to pay compensation and child support. Compared to your assets, the house and car are nothing. Tyler has been raised by me since he was little. He’s a sensitive kid with special needs. Now that you’re in love, how much energy do you really have left for him? Being involved in his upbringing isn’t just about money. It’s about time and companionship."

I let the words hang in the air, not blinking. I remembered every night I sat beside Tyler’s bed, holding his hand when the nightmares came. I wanted Derek to understand the weight of all he was giving up.

Derek was silent for a while before he said, "Either way, I won’t use three million to buy out the father-son relationship."

He stared at the floor, his jaw working. For a second, I almost felt sorry for him, but then I remembered the hotel rooms and the lies.

I opened the divorce agreement. "The three million is compensation and child support. If you want to give him more emotionally, you can transfer money to our son. I’ll open a separate account for him."

I slid a blank notebook across the table for him to see. "His name will be on it. You want to help? Show him. Don’t show me."

Derek suddenly laughed. "Rachel, I never knew you loved money so much. All you talk about is money."

His laugh was bitter, almost mocking. I recognized the tone—he used it in board meetings when he thought someone was being unreasonable.

"What else? Is loving you of any use?"

The words slipped out, raw and sharp. I surprised even myself. I let them sit there, heavy in the space between us.

Derek was stunned and didn’t speak again. He signed the divorce agreement with a cold face. He also made an appointment for us to go to the county clerk’s office to file for divorce the next day. Then he called an Uber.

His signature was quick and hard, pen scratching across the page. As he gathered his things, I watched the familiar shape of his back—no longer mine to memorize.

After finishing my show, I went to sleep.

I changed into my favorite old t-shirt, the one with the faded Cleveland Indians logo, and curled up under the covers. The house was too quiet, but I drifted off, dreaming of nothing at all.

When I woke in the morning, Derek had already left.

The other side of the bed was cold, the indentation already fading. The sunlight snuck through the blinds, painting stripes across the room. I listened for the usual noises—the clink of his mug, the news on the radio—but all I heard was the hum of the fridge.

My son ran out of his room and hugged me, excitedly telling me he’d had a very happy dream last night. Listening to him, I gently told him that Daddy was busy with work and might be away on business trips for a long time.

He flung his arms around my waist, breath warm on my side, chattering about superheroes and dreams where everyone could fly. I smoothed his hair and kissed his forehead, wondering how much of this he understood.

My son, unlike usual, didn’t insist on calling Derek or ask, "Daddy, when are you coming home?" He just said, "Oh," pursed his lips, and said, "It’s okay. As long as I have Mommy with me."

He said it with such quiet certainty that my heart broke all over again. I stroked his cheek, trying to memorize this moment of innocence before it slipped away.

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Tears streamed down my face. I excused myself to the bathroom to compose myself.

I shut the door, turned on the faucet, and let the sobs come—shoulders shaking as I clung to the edge of the sink. I splashed cold water on my face, watching the red in my eyes fade away.

Agreeing to divorce Derek, besides sadness, what I felt most was guilt toward my son—for not being able to give him a complete family. But I know this guilt isn’t mine to bear.

I told myself again and again: this isn’t my fault. I repeated it like a mantra, over the rush of the tap. My therapist’s words came back to me—You can’t control other people’s choices. I tried to believe it.

That morning, after taking my son to school, I went with Derek to the county clerk’s office to file for divorce. There’s a thirty-day waiting period before we can get the official certificate.

The clerk at the front desk barely looked up as she stamped the forms. The whole thing felt anticlimactic—no drama, just paperwork and polite nods. I clutched my son’s lunchbox in one hand, my phone in the other, and walked back out into the cold spring air.

Back in the car, I circled today’s date on the calendar.

Divorce countdown: 30 days.