The divorce became final a little over two months later.
The administrative process took longer than the dramatic parts.
Forms.
Waiting periods.
Transfer orders.
Account division.
Insurance changes.
Tax documents.
I learned divorce is largely bureaucracy built around grief.
Claire found a job before the final decree.
Not Target.
That rumor came from Jake and turned out to be wrong.
She took an entry-level marketing coordinator position for a nonprofit.
Far below where she might have been had she stayed in the workforce.
But it was respectable work.
Real work.
The first paycheck she earned in twelve years reportedly made her cry.
I heard that from Rebecca.
For once, the information did not satisfy me.
It made me sad.
Claire had always been capable.
We had both participated in creating a life where capability became optional.
Blake ended things fully around the same time.
He moved to another city for a project.
No dramatic betrayal.
No secret wife.
No karma lightning bolt.
He simply decided the relationship had become more responsibility than he wanted.
Money may not have meant much to Blake.
Responsibility apparently did.
I stayed in the house.
For a while, I hated it.
Every room contained Claire.
Yoga mats.
Books.
Decorations.
Empty spaces where furniture had been divided.
I changed the locks after the divorce because Harris recommended it, not because I expected Claire to arrive with a crowbar.
The first evening after the locksmith left, I stood inside listening to the new deadbolt click.
It felt symbolic anyway.
Jake came over that weekend.
We cleaned the garage.
Not because it needed cleaning.
Because men who don't know what to do with grief apparently organize sockets.
At one point, Jake held up a tool.
"You know you have four of these?"
"I know."
"Why?"
"Redundancy."
"You're insane."
"Prepared."
He put it down.
Then:
"How you doing?"
"Fine."
"Real answer."
I stared at a shelf.
"Tired."
"Angry?"
"Sometimes."
"Miss her?"
I did not answer immediately.
"Yes."
Jake nodded.
That was all.
No lecture about self-respect.
No celebration.
Fifteen years does not evaporate because someone earns your anger.
For months, I woke expecting Claire beside me.
I would turn.
Empty pillow.
Then remember.
Sometimes relief followed.
Sometimes grief.
Often both.
I started seeing a therapist because Harris recommended one after noticing I talked about the divorce like a financial audit.
Her name was Dr. Elise Morgan.
At our third appointment, she asked:
"What are you most angry about?"
"The cheating."
"That isn't how you talk."
"What do you mean?"
"You become animated when you describe the finances."
"The cards."
"Her mother's facility."
"Your overtime."
"You become quieter when you discuss sex."
I hated that observation.
"So?"
"Maybe the central injury isn't sexual."
I thought.
Then said:
"I worked myself half to death."
That sentence came out harder than expected.