29. The Opposite of a Wedding

New Year's had come and gone. Symbolically speaking, I had made the break I needed to make, between a shitty 2009 and a (hopefully) better 2010. I figured, hey, it probably couldn't get much worse. But just in case, I thought I'd try and be grateful for what I did have: a sweet, smart, firecracker of a Little One. A home that I could pay for. A job I didn't hate. Friends who rather patiently waited for me to start engaging with them again. And, most of all, I had a court date to keep.

The court date was sandwiched right in the middle of the workday. As a precaution, I opted to forgo mascara.

At 11:50am, I posted to my Facebook account: "I'm hurtling towards the finish line."

At 12:50pm, I started the walk to the courthouse.

The courthouse in my city is a large, imposing, ornately Greco-Roman structure with multiple floors. It's both austerely imposing and aesthetically pleasing. It toes the line between "You're here because you did something wrong, and we're here to punish you" and "You're here because someone else did something wrong, and you have to clean up after them."

On one floor of this building, it's where families are created, and families are also broken apart.

Today was January 4, the first business day of the new year, and I was damn ready to get divorced. I was sad, and slightly anxious, but D was nowhere in sight - he'd opted not to attend the proceedings - so I had only my whip-smart lawyer to keep me company. For $300 an hour, I actually saw her as a bargain against the alternative.

I waited in the lobby next to the "Family Law" court. This was a couple of floors below where I'd taken that parenting seminar, but no less depressing. I was the only woman in a long line of despondent faces.

My lawyer arrived, and we went in. You know how courts always appear in the movies or on TV, where, no matter what the infraction or matter to be addressed, there's always a stately wood-paneled, high-ceilinged room with multiple guards, agitated lawyers, solemn defendants, and pew-like benches? Well, this was exactly the opposite of that. Except for the pews, they did have those.

1:00 came, and we sat down. My lawyer approached the judge, a kindly-looking grey-haired woman in a black robe, seated on a dais of justice. One supposes. My lawyer gave the judge's clerk some paperwork, then came back down and sat with me.

One couple after another approached the judge. She would ask them each three questions: Are you so-and-so and are you such-and-such? Do you have any children? Do both of you agree that you are to be divorced?

Each couple uttered the right words. Each couple parted, sadly smiling. Then there was me, walking up to the judge, alone. So appropos, I thought.

She asked me the questions. She smiled as she asked them, and I smiled back. Yes, that is my name. Yes, we have a child. Yes, we agree to divorce. My lawyer uttered some legalese.

Stamp, sign, a nod to my laywer - and I was divorced. Wow, I was divorced. I was officially a divorcee.

My lawyer stamped, then gave me a stack of papers. She escorted me to another part of the floor. Ever practical, she said, "I would happily wait here with you, but I'd charge you to do it. It's up to you."

I gave her a hug and said "Thanks, I'm good." She left. Expensive, but I liked her. I was sorry to see her go.

And so I stood in line, waiting for a clerk to take my paperwork and certify it, and file it. All that pomp and circumstance to get married, and this is how it ends, I couldn't help but stand there thinking. I didn't even wear mascara!

After the paperwork was done, I called my parents and told them that all had gone well. They were subdued, but I could tell they were delighted for me to have finished this part.

I returned to work. I hadn't shed a tear. Opening my laptop, I logged back in to Facebook and wrote, "I am all done. Finito. Free."