His Side of My Story

It was early morning when I turned onto Market Street and spotted the courthouse on my left.

It was bigger than I expected, and there wasn’t a parking spot open as far as I could see. Anxiety began to creep in as the simple arrival instructions I’d received from the clerk’s office didn’t seem detailed enough.

I hoped I’d be able to find my lawyer once I got inside the building.

Nervous energy gnawed at my stomach and my hands turned clammy as I circled the area, looking for somewhere to park. After several minutes, I maneuvered into a tight space at a parking meter three blocks away, put a few coins in the slot and started the hike toward the courthouse.

The clacking of my heels fell into a familiar rhythm, and that rhythm began to whisper to me softly, but persistently. You know the words. It's time to sing.

I resisted the urge to recite that silly song in this, the most dreaded event of my life. But as the clacking of my heels continued, I saw myself at Diane's dining room table, eating her homemade chili. I saw her eyes glistening as she shared the story of overcoming her darkest days.

She told me she woke up from a terrible dream one night singing the lyrics to an old Bible school song from her childhood. This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it. From that day on, she sang it every morning. She sang it to her children as she was getting them up for school. She sang it as she was folding laundry and cooking dinner. Mostly, she sang it when she felt the darkness creeping back into her spirit.

For the past year, I had sung it, silently, in my head, as I walked the city blocks to get to my office. I'd tune out the noise in my ears and the inner noise of my broken heart and focus only on the sound of my heels on the pavement. The rhythm became a cadence, and for the half mile walk, each day, I'd repeat the words over and over: This is the day…this is the day…that the Lord has made…that the Lord has made…I will rejoice…I will rejoice…and be glad in it…and be glad in it.

As I neared the courthouse, I scanned the front of the building to find the appropriate entrance, balling my hands into fists, and squeezing and releasing them in rhythm to the cadence of my heels on the pavement.

This is the day…this is the day…

To my great relief, I found my lawyer waiting for me near the front entrance. He smiled like an old friend and greeted me casually.

“You ready?” he asked brightly.

It annoyed me, his routine, almost cavalier demeanor. He spoke to me as nonchalantly as if we were walking into a meeting to discuss quarterly financial reports. He'd been like that the day I met him, too. He spoke to me like he knew everything about me, and understood exactly where I was coming from.

He didn't see me. Not really. I was a cookie cut in the same shape, made from the same batter and charred in the same oven as every other woman who walked into his office seeking a divorce.

But I smiled back and nodded.

We walked in together and joined the long line of people waiting for security clearance to enter the court rooms.

“This will be quick,” he began. “The judge will ask you some questions and you’ll answer. He’ll ask you how long you’ve been married, and you’ll tell him. He’ll ask if you’re seeking final dissolution of your marriage, and you’ll say ‘yes.’ I’ll go over the details of the divorce papers and show him your signatures.”

He paused to glance at his watch, and then continued, “He’ll ask if your husband is present in court today, and you’ll say ‘no.’ And then he’ll sign the final divorce decree and ask you to sign it as well.” He paused again to survey the long line we stood in.

“And that’s it,” he finished with a smile.

That’s it, is it? That’s how you terminate an 11 year marriage? I smiled and told him I understood as we inched closer to the front of the line.

It occurred to me that I ought to silence my cell phone before going into the judge's chamber, so I took it out of my purse.

My lawyer quickly covered my hand with his own and whispered sharply, “You can’t have that!” he glanced around cautiously and then leaned closer. “Cell phones aren’t allowed in the courthouse!”

“They aren't?" I looked at him dumbfounded. "What do I do? Should I take it back to my car?”

He thought for a moment. “Where are you parked?” he asked.

“About three blocks away,” I replied helplessly.

He paused, contemplating, and then discreetly took my phone from my hand and put it in his pocket.

“I don’t have to go through security,” he explained, “so I’ll just hold onto it until we leave the building.”

Impatiently, he looked at his watch again and then at the long line of people waiting to get through security.

“Let me run ahead and see if I can get into the judge’s chamber to go over the paperwork,” he said. “That’ll help us speed things up while you wait to be cleared by security.” He walked away and left me standing there with my thoughts.

I never imagined I’d be here. It was never part of my life’s plan to wind up divorced. I thought back on the past 11 years I’d spent with the man I chose to be my husband and the father of my child. Sure, I had threatened to leave. So many times. Every time I learned of another woman in his life, I’d threaten. Then he’d be sorry and we’d work it out and we'd stay married. Even as my heart for him died, little by little, I felt we had been married too long, shared too much life. I couldn't imagine really leaving him.

“Next!” demanded the security guard, interrupting my thoughts. I stepped forward and she reached routinely for my purse. I complied and she began pawing through it. She stopped abruptly, and peered in as something caught her attention. When she removed her hand from my bag, I saw she was holding a knife!

I gasped. My brothers pocket knife! Not a little Swiss army knife either. It had every appearance of a weapon. It was a menacing blade with a jet black handle, longer and sharper that anyone needs to carry around for daily use. He left it at my house one day and I dropped it in my purse, expecting to return it to him. I had been carrying it for weeks and simply forgot.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, my voice quivering with the fear of a person who just got caught bringing a weapon to court. “I forgot that was in there.”

“Well, you can’t take it in with you,” the she said, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Is it possible for me to leave it here and pick it up on my way out?’ I asked.

“No,” she said stiffly. “You can surrender the knife here and we’ll dispose of it, or you can take it to your car and come back through the line.”

I looked at the long line behind me. I’d be late for my hearing if I went to my car. But my brother loved that knife. I couldn’t surrender it. I made up my mind that I’d hurry to my car and text my lawyer to tell him what happened.

I had just made it out the door of the courthouse when I reached in my purse for my phone. It wasn't there. Of course! I remembered. He has my phone in his pocket! Panicked, I walked faster in the direction of my car, sick in the core of my gut with anxiety as I heard the rapid clacking of my heels.

I breathed deeply in and out and tried to calm myself by chanting in double time, This is the day…this is the day…

I reached the end of the block and noticed a trash can near the street. Each step I took toward my car made me later and more anxious. I started to wonder if the judge would still see me if I was late. Would he make me reschedule? Would it be days, weeks, or even months before this was finally over?

I decided I needed to head back to the courthouse and abandon my plans to stow the knife safely in my car. I briefly considered throwing it away, but my hand stopped just short of of the bin. Instead, I very carefully positioned it on the rim of the can and spun around on my heels to head back, fighting back worried tears by chanting in my head all the way.

It was a gamble. People passing by on their way to work would be unlikely to see it just sitting there. But if someone stopped near the trash can or threw something away, there was a chance of it being picked up or knocked into the can. It was a risk I had to take.

As I stood in the long security line once more, I took a few deep breaths to settle my nerves and mentally prepare for what was coming next.

For all my years of threatening, I never imagined the day would come when my threats would lead to a separation. Those first few days were so agonizing, I couldn’t have dreamed that separation would last a whole year. And I surprised even myself the day I went to a lawyer and drew up divorce papers.

Maybe I didn’t believe I meant it even then. Maybe it was just supposed to be a scare tactic. The final wake-up call that would drive him back home. But he had been so eager to sign the papers. Generous even. He made no dispute about a single provision, from child support to division of property. Clearly, he was ready to move on with his life. So we filed the papers.

And today it would all be made final. The life I lived for 11 years would end, and the bonds of marriage that held that life together would be forever severed.

I got through the security line and found my lawyer looking concerned on the other side.

“I thought you left!” he exclaimed, looking relieved, but a little exasperated, too.

I hurriedly told him about my security and the knife, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment for all my courthouse protocol mishaps. It seemed as if these were things everyone else knew. Things I should know. But I didn't know them. I had never been to court before.

The lawyer ushered me into the judge’s chambers and made profuse apologies on my behalf, reporting only that I had hit some snags in security, but not offering to elaborate further. The judge nodded in understanding. "Our security folks take their jobs a little too seriously sometimes," he said with a good-natured smile.

He invited me to sit, and I sat. He asked me my name, and I told him. He asked how long I’d been married.

“11 years,” I replied.

He nodded sympathetically and proceeded. “Do you come here today seeking final dissolution of your marriage?”

“Yes,” I answered timidly.

He took a few moments to scan the paper in front of him and then turned it toward me.

“Everything is in order here,” he said. “At this point, you’ve satisfied the court’s requirements, made a mutual decision to dissolve the marriage, and fulfilled the appropriate waiting period.”

He handed me a pen and continued, “This hearing is just a formality, really. You don’t have to testify. All I need you to do is sign here.”

I held the pen in my hand and 11 years of memories came flashing before my mind’s eyes in rapid succession. Tears blurred my vision and the paper all but disappeared as I struggled to keep my composure.

I took a few deep breaths, and, without really knowing why, began to speak.

“11 years ago, I married a man who pushed me to accomplish way more than I ever thought I could. I had never been very athletic, but he trained me to run. First a half mile. Then a mile. Then a 5K. Today, I run half marathons. I set a personal record just last month.”

I didn’t look up, but kept my eyes fixed on the blurry paper in front of me.

“All I ever wanted to be was a mother. And he made me the mother of a perfect little angel girl. She’s the best of everything I’ve ever had within me, and without him, I wouldn’t have her. I'll always be thankful to him for that.”

I drew another deep breath and the words came easier.

“I got married when I was 20 years old and dropped out of college. I might have been content to spend the rest of my life working customer service, but he pushed me to have ambition. He stepped in on parenting duties many late nights while I poured over books and study materials to become the first ever college graduate in my family. I slaved away building a successful career from nothing because of his hand on my back, gently nudging me forward all the way.”

“I know he's done a lot wrong," I said, looking up at the judge, "and I'm ready for this to end. But as I look back on my life, I have to acknowledge that am who I am because of him.”

He looked levelly at me, but said nothing.

I looked back down at the pen in my hand, “I just needed to say that before I sign this.”

With tears in my eyes, I pressed the pen to the paper in front of me and ended my marriage once and for all.

The judge gave me a stiff nod of finality. After a few moments of silence, he took the paper back from me and scribbled his name on it. He told me he’d make a copy for me and one for my lawyer and that I’d get an official copy in the mail once it had been filed with the clerk’s office. He shook my hand and wished me the best, then turned to exit through the back door of his chamber.

I parted ways with my lawyer with as few words as possible, and, collecting my phone from him, turned and walked slowly toward my car. An eerie calm and numbness had replaced my nerves of the morning. I felt as if I wasn’t even walking, but just floating outside my body and being drawn forward involuntarily.

I snapped out of my trance as I passed a trash can on the street corner. There, I saw my brother’s knife, completely undisturbed, balancing on the rim. I smiled and gave a little relieved laugh as I took it in my hands. I held it tightly and started walking again, unhurriedly, but more deliberately toward a new beginning.

It’s such a nice day, I observed in the cool breeze of mid-morning. A brand new, beautiful day in the story of my life.

As the clacking of my heels set a slow, steady rhythm, I found myself chanting, “I will rejoice…I will rejoice…and be glad in it.”