Last Sunday night, I was washing dishes when Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” came on my Spotify mix and then I was washing dishes and crying. I haven’t cried about my divorce in over a year, but Stevie Nicks will get you.
The next morning, I received an email from my lawyer’s office: “Your divorce has been granted.” These emails come completely out of the blue after you file. We had been told it could take anywhere from one to three months and instead, after months of waiting and figuring out paperwork, it took four days.
I read through the rest of the email and saw that a judge named Victor had stamped the attached divorce decree. I had the bizarre thought that I’ll never forget his name now, even though I’m sure he did not retain either of ours. He presumably stamps some number (dozens? More since 2020?) of divorce decrees every day for our county. How weird that he might later be in line at the grocery store behind a woman whose divorce he had just approved. How weird that divorces require this kind of approval.
A few hours later, Dan called. “I kind of can’t believe it just happens over email?” he said. We laughed, then were quiet. “I really did like being married to you,” I said. “I liked being married to you too,” he said. Everyone always forgets that Icarus also flew.
