7 Minutes

I stared at the shirt on my dresser as I slipped out of bedroom slippers. I took a few sips of my coffee and thought of my mom, altering and ironing it the night before. She is the mom that made our childhood Halloween costumes, stitched on tutus for dance recitals, altered our adult tops and pants to fit our petite frames just right. But I don’t think a divorce-day shirt is ever anticipated in your alterations que as a mom. I had just hit her with the truth months prior. Eight years worth of truth that was still undoubtedly being processed, as I handed her the soft white t-shirt with subtle Script font stitched across the bust line. The words on the shirt now breaking my trance, as I spoke them out loud; my mantra for the day. I No Longer Paint Red Flags Green.

It was the day of my divorce. In a few hours I would earn a new title. Titles. Ex-wife. Divorced. Single. I had heard the saying on my t-shirt months before on a divorce podcast, and it made me laugh and feel strong. It made those titles feel like a badge of honor instead of a shame-filled label. At least for the day. My anxiety was at levels I had never experienced before in my life. I checked my lap top charge for the 15th time, made sure my zoom session was set to login and sat at my desk with minutes to spare while reciting Psalm 91.

Three zoom cameras clicked to life; our attorneys and the magistrate. Zoom court and court in general was unfamiliar territory for me. I had been doing so many things outside my comfort zone in the months leading up to this call. Grey rock communication. Changing my cell phone number. Moving what could be salvaged in one hour out of my marital home. Legal meetings. Bank account withdraws. One would think a zoom call would be a 70s-and-sunny walk in the park. But it wasn’t. By the time I arrived at this call, my emotional state registered at irritable and hypervigilant, with a bit of paranoia. In the months leading up to this call, I had awakened to what actually happened to me as a wife.

My then husband, soon to be ex, was last to join. This was not a surprise to me. What was a surprise, was the very public place he chose to join this call. I had taken the entire day off of work, and was tucked away inside my tiny apartment behind closed doors, with a cleared desk and calendar. My then husband was up high and outside. Tall buildings were in the background and people moved about intermittently behind him. A coffee cup nestled in front of him, likely holding a fresh latte. He wore a crisp button down shirt, his hair was shaped into that tight, hard-part style and his beard freshly trimmed. I was surprised, dear partner, that the usual butterfly dance I would feel in my belly, didn’t happen when I saw his face for the first time in 3 months. I was surprised, that my very first thought, was I have no idea who this person is.

My divorce was 7 minutes. A few questions. A few references to our settlement agreement. 14 years. 8 years of marriage. 2 years post that first disclosure on our back porch. 1 year of separation.

And it was over in 7 minutes.

My divorce was held on the exact date of my first D-Day, at the exact time I was sitting on that porch that hot, July summer day two years prior.

To say God orchestrated my days surviving and leading up to this moment is an understatement.

I bought a new, blue summer dress for that night to have dinner with my family. For some reason, the color made me think of Wendy from the childhood movie, Peter Pan, when I first saw it on the hangar. Wendy, and her beautiful blue dress, as she shifted around the island of the Lost Boys. I hung my t-shirt up and softly smiled as I did a celebratory twirl in the dress in front of my leaning mirror; lost boys and an isolating island were no longer to be my life.

Dear partner. If divorce is, was, or will be a part of your story, I pray it is at the end of a dirt road that was fighting the good fight for your marriage. I pray you can lay your head down at night and know with complete rest, every ounce of your being, that you did the best you could. I pray your support chain doesn’t end with the last casserole dish being dropped off at your door, or text that reads, “I’m thinking about you.” I pray your new days are held for the time to grieve, the time to reclaim, the time for forgiveness, the time for acceptance, and the life-long learning of healing.

You, dear partner, are the hero of your story. And you always will be.