Page 78 of Letting Go

Okay. I want him dead again.

Lorna shifts beside me, flipping through a worn manila folder with a calm competence. She’s been my rock. Caden wanted to be here too, to hold my hand or take names or possibly light my ex on fire with his eyes, but I told him no.

This is mine.

Ineedto do this on my own. I’ve sat in the passenger seat of my own life for too long. I need to look this moment in the face andnotflinch.

I actually went to therapy. Real therapy. A few sessions, nothing epic, but enough. Enough for the therapist and Caden, bless his emotionally evolved heart, to help me see the truth I’ve been avoiding:

I won’t ever move on until I get closure.

Until I say what I need to say, not just for him to hear, but formeto hear out loud.

And it has to be after the court declares us divorced. Because I want those words,“it’s over”to sit heavy in the air between us when I tell him exactly who he was. And exactly who I am now.

Our number is called, and my heart does that weird skip-thump thing it does right before something irreversible. Lorna squeezes my hand once then lets go. Because this part? I walk alone.

The courtroom is smaller than I expected. Unremarkable, even. No fiery cross-examinations. No shouting or gasping or someone yelling“Objection!”like in the movies. Just a judge in half-moon glasses flipping through a stack of paperwork like he’s reviewing a grocery list instead of legally ending my marriage.

It’s boring. Shockingly normal. Civil, even.

We sit. We state our names for the record. There's testimony, but it’s barely dramatic, confirming residency, yes, there are irreconcilable differences, yes, property has been divided.

A dry list of facts about a life that feels like itbledout in technicolour.

The judge reads through the Marital Settlement Agreement then he pauses. Looks up at me. Tilts his head just slightly, like he’s trying to see something behind my eyes.

“You’re sure the house is all you want?” he asks, his tone neutral, but with just a pinch too much…familiarity.

And in that moment, Iknow. I know exactly who he is.

He’s a friend of my father-in-law.

Ofhisfather. A man with money and secrets and old friends in high places. Probably sent Christmas cardswith embossed envelopes and matching return address labels.

I meet the judge’s gaze head-on. “Yes, Your Honor. That’s all I want.”

Because that house? That haunted, cold, echoing monument of bad choices and worse memories? It's mine now. And not because I want tolivein it, but because I need to leave iton my own terms.

He studies me for a second longer, like he’s waiting for me to crack. I don’t. I’ve been cracked before. I know how to hold the pieces in place now.

Then the judge turns to Mike. My soon-to-be-ex, sitting there in a too-expensive suit with his too-clean conscience. And something in the judge’s face shifts, just slightly, but enough that I catch it.

“What you did,” the judge says slowly, like each word is being chosen from a darker place, “was reprehensible. And you should be ashamed.”

Oh.

I didn’t see that coming.

Neither did Mike. His face tightens, like someone just slapped him with a dictionary.

And me? I sit straighter. I let those words wrap around me like vindication. Because this man, this official, this neutral third party, is saying what I’ve screamed into my pillow at 3AM fordays. He’s putting it in the record. Making it real.

The gavel drops.

And just like that,it’s over.

Except, it isn’t.

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