Six months after I filed, the divorce was finalized.
I sat in my car afterward, holding the paperwork, surprised by how little relief I felt at first.
I was sad.
Eleven years had ended in a way I’d never imagined.
Then I drove to school to pick up Noah.
He climbed into the car carrying a drawing of two houses joined by a road.
“That’s mine,” he said, pointing to the little figure between them.
I smiled. “Which house is yours?”
“Both.”
I looked at him in the rearview mirror.
“That’s right.”
Last weekend, Noah asked whether he could have friends over for a sleepover.
We made popcorn, built a blanket fort, and stayed up too late watching a movie.
After his friends left, he hugged me.
“Mom, our house is still fun.”
I kissed the top of his head. “Of course it is.”
Sometimes I think about that Saturday morning, the pancakes burning while a blonde woman looked into our kitchen through a phone screen.
