To be or not to be?

Retta glanced out of the rained-splattered, kitchen window, through its age-old cracks and neatly painted sill. The weather was as cold and as dreary as it had been for weeks. Its gloom reflected Retta’s mood. Tapping her slender finger nervously on the counter, she returned her attention to the menacing pile of forms lumped in front of her. She’d been avoiding them for several weeks now, unable to find the courage for confrontation. But not today. ‘I can do this,’ she resolved. ‘It’s just a few little signatures.’

Retta’s determination, however, was rapidly eroding. The enormous bold letters at which she stared had been ricocheting painfully off the walls of her mind since the very first moment she saw them. Divorce. There was something ominous about the term. Despite Retta’s belief that separation would be best for both she and Oliver, that little word seemed to saturate her every thought with the pungent stench of failure and lost hope.

Her gaze again wondered out into the rain, scanning the barren field that lay ahead of the cottage. Retta couldn’t stop herself from thinking about the day, when hiking through the countryside on their honeymoon, she and Ollie stumbled upon the field and the pretty little cottage in its heart. Then, it was a breathtaking span of luscious greenery, sprinkled with dainty purple petunias and the precious dreams of young newlyweds. Natural beauty radiated from its rich soil, and with it, the promise of tranquillity, happiness and joy. The young lovers were instantly captivated, purchasing the property as soon as they discovered that it had been un-owned for years. Ollie had called it fate: the angel’s way of gifting them with a perfect future. At that, Retta had simply giggled and informed Ollie he’d been watching too many romantic comedies.

Retta remembered fondly the excitement she and Ollie shared as they readied themselves to establish their first home together. With only just enough money for the deposit, the couple had joked of their lack of possessions. They had claimed that that even if their house remained bare of furniture indefinitely, it would never be empty of the eternal love they shared. They were each other’s homes. They would be each other’s homes forever.

****

Strings of flickering Christmas lights suspended from each corner of their one bedroom apartment. In front of Retta was their new Christmas tree, donned in a colourful cloak of Christmas foil and twinkling fairy lights. With each step, Retta carefully avoided the mess of wrapping paper and discarded toys that littered the floor. She was in search of the perpetrators of such ruin, when in an instant, two little villains raced past her, speeding towards the origin of the wafting smell of pudding. Much to her amusement, Oliver had prepared a small dish of melted Christmas pudding, each portion, a delicate construction of layered chocolate imbued with the love of a caring father.

“I’ve already eaten, darling”, she said as she arrived at the scene of the crime, “But you can give my portion to the children”. She pushed her slice towards her two boys as they observed the delicate layers of chocolate and cream with intensifying excitement.

Retta was not surprised when the children’s faces soured with every bite. Nor was she surprised by Oliver’s admission: “I might have missed a few of the ingredients.” Amongst the bowls and beaters and scatterings of chocolate and blobs of cream Clementine urged the children from the bench and into the next room to hear the sounds of Oliver’s violin. The moment they arrived, the room erupted with the joyous sounds of Christmas as Oliver drew his bow on strings as taut as tightropes. Retta and her boys leaned in towards the ringing and tingling of “jingle bells”, and for one mad moment, Retta thought that there were more of them, an entire orchestra of violins that spilled into the festive space and went dashing across the sofas and the Persian rugs and the lampshade bequeathed by Aunt Edith last week.

****

Retta was forced from her reverie by the harsh pitter-patter of hail stones on the tin roof. She was still standing at the kitchen counter, gazing out across the field. However, instead of marvelling at its beauty through the hopeful eyes of her younger self, she saw its reality: a flooded expanse of mud and drowned expectations.

In that moment, Retta realised two things. The first was that she had been smiling. Involuntarily, her entire body had been filled with the happiness of remembering her union with Ollie: the sensation of their joint experiences, the wonder of their shared love and the value of their unique relationship. The second was that she was crying. Tears were forcing their way out of her stubborn eyes and down her cold cheek, compelling Retta to acknowledge the common weakness displayed by both she and Oliver. Retta’s tears urged her to recognise the shame of their actions: the indignity of their mutual readiness to forever abandon the sense of belonging shared between them.

Retta turned her gaze back to the divorce papers for the countless time. She contemplated the enormity of picking up the small blue pen resting comfortably beside her shaking hand, and placing it to the unmarked page.Her messy scribble on that dotted line would sever their promise of forever, unravel their vows of ‘for better and for worse’, and mean that they, who had been united for what seemed like a lifetime, would no longer belong to each other. Regardless of its fraying and fragmentation, the rope tying she and Ollie together had permanently interlaced itself through Retta’s individual identity. She did not want to legally disconnect herself from Oliver because that would necessitate extracting a section of herself from her own heart and destroying it. That, she felt, would evoke an agony beyond all others. Mending the millions of torn stitches existent between she and Oliver, one by one, could surely be an easier and less painful endeavour. 

Retta gasped and pushed the pen away. She knew she could never do it… She couldn’t sign that dotted line.