Then two weeks later, we attended a barbecue.
Someone made an innocent joke about party games.
Simon became completely quiet.
We left early.
He apologized in the car.
I did too.
Neither of us had done anything wrong that night.
The wound simply existed.
Eventually we admitted that reconciliation had become another obligation.
Simon was trying because he believed good husbands save marriages.
I was trying because I believed remorse required restoring what I had damaged.
Neither reason was enough.
Nine months after Jessica's party, we sat in Dr. Feld's office.
Simon said:
"I think we should divorce."
The sentence broke my heart.
But it did not surprise me.
I nodded.
"I think so too."
We cried.
Then we discussed June.
That was adulthood at its least cinematic.
One moment, the end of a marriage.
The next, school districts.
Holiday schedules.
Health insurance.
Who keeps the house.
What happens to the college account.
There was no custody battle.
No judge deciding I was dangerous because I kissed Liam.
Our attorneys created a shared parenting plan.
June would spend roughly equal time with us, structured around school and our work schedules.
We retained joint decision-making for education and medical care.
Neither of us paid the other punitive "support."
Child expenses were divided in a proportion reflecting income.
The house was sold because neither could comfortably maintain it alone without changing everything else.
That hurt almost as much as the divorce.
The day we packed June's room, she sat on the floor surrounded by stuffed animals.
"Why can't one of you stay?"
Simon and I looked at each other.
Because the mortgage was expensive.
Because memories lived in every room.
Because neither of us could afford to buy out the other's equity easily.
None of those answers belonged to a seven-year-old.
So Simon said:
"We're both going to make you new rooms."
June scowled.
"I already had a room."
I turned away so she would not see me cry.
The divorce finalized thirteen months after the party.
The hearing lasted less than twenty minutes.
Nobody discussed the kiss.
That surprised me.
For a year I had treated it as the legal centerpiece of our story.
The court cared about the settlement.
Property.
Parenting.
Disclosure.
Whether the agreement was voluntary.
Whether June's interests were protected.
The moral meaning of that party belonged to Simon and me, not the judge.
Outside the courthouse, Simon and I stood beside the steps.
He wore the same dark suit he used for important work meetings.
I wore a navy dress.
No friends.
No parents.
Just us.
Nine years of marriage officially finished.
"I'm sorry," I said.
Simon looked at me.
"I know."
"I wish I could take it back."
"I know."
"Not just the kiss."
"I know."
He rubbed his hands together.
Cold morning.
Then he said:
"I'm sorry too."
"For what?"
"For waiting until I was half gone before admitting I was unhappy."
"You didn't deserve what happened."
"But you deserved a husband who noticed you before someone else did."
Tears filled my eyes.
"Context."
I whispered.
A faint smile.