It was a divorce decree.
It was right there: Claire’s name, my name, and a judge’s intimidating signature. And it was dated 21 years ago.
I sat frozen, staring at the paper. I thought maybe it was a mistake, like some kind of document that had been drafted but never filed. But the signatures were real.
Mine was tight and uneven. Claire’s handwriting was graceful. I traced her name with my finger, as if touching it might unlock the memory.
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« Claire, » I whispered aloud,
barely recognizing the sound of my own voice.
« What is this? »
I blinked hard, as if my brain was trying to reset itself. There had to be some explanation, some memory I was missing. But then again, there were a lot of things I couldn’t remember from that time.
The accident had left me in the hospital for weeks. I’d skidded off Route 5 during a sleet storm and slammed into the guardrail. Everything after that was fractured.
The coma, the surgeries,
and the slow crawl back to myself.
The doctors said memory loss was expected.
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Claire never filled in more than I asked. And maybe I hadn’t asked enough.
We had celebrated our 30th anniversary just last year. I gave her a necklace with a swan pendant. She gave me a fountain pen with my name engraved on it; we’d laughed over wine and toasted to another 30 years together.
« How did we make it this far? » I asked her that night, tipsy and sentimental.
« We didn’t run, my love, »
she’d said, leaning in close.
« Even when we wanted to. »
Had she meant it?
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I dug further into the box, my heart pounding harder now. Beneath the divorce papers was another envelope. Inside was a birth certificate.
« Lila T. Female. Born May 7, 1990.
Mother: Claire T.
Father: Unlisted. »
The T definitely referred to Claire’s maiden name.
And the birthdate was three years before we married.
Lila had been born three years before Claire and I got married. I had never heard her name. I had never seen this certificate. And never, not once in all our years together, had Claire told me she had a child.
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I stared at the page, completely stunned. My wife had lived an entire chapter of her life without me — and never told me a word.
Had I asked for the divorce?
I couldn’t remember.
