Divorced! Thats it. Anne Lewis decided, at her sixty-something years of age.
Anne, an elegant woman in her favourite vintage hat, settled herself with poise on the chair in the towns registry office. Across from her, behind an overly ornate and utterly charmless desk, sat a young clerk who looked like her morning had gone horribly awry.
Anne placed a neatly folded piece of paper on the desk in front of the clerk.
A divorce application, she said, her voice crisp and deliberate.
The young woman, dragging her eyes away from the flickering numbers on her computer screen, gave Anne an incredulous look.
A woman of this age filing for divorce? Really?
The clerk expected anyonean agitated young man with tear-streaked cheeks, a frazzled woman fed up with life, or at least a couple realising theyd tied the knot a bit too hastily. The kind she saw every day.
But this this vision of composure and dignity?
Are you quite sure, Mrs. Lewis? she asked, sceptical still, as though she were being set up for a prank. Pardon me, but at your age How many years have you been married?
Forty. Our anniversary wouldve been this September, Anne replied with a measured calmness.
Forty years… and you wish to divorce?
Miss
Forgive me, but have you thought this through?
Anne offered her a faintly indulgent smile. This line of questioning seemed unnecessary.
My dear, she began. I have never made a decision without thinking it through. Especially something as significant as this. Forty years weve been a family. Our anniversary is coming up. Thought wed mark the occasion in our own way.
The young clerk hesitated, stepping out of her bounds a little, And youre alright discussing it so… easily?
I bid him farewell a while ago, Anne replied lightly. Thats why it feels easy now.
The clerks jaw dropped as she attempted to process it. Forty years. Divorce papers. And a smile.
Im sorry to hear that… but its certainly your decision. If I understand correctly, theres no shared property or dependents involved, right?
You understand perfectly.
The clerk scribbled something and handed Anne the places to sign.
Sign here, here, and here. And please add todays date.
Anne took the pen and signed with an impeccable, careful script. Say what you will, her composure was remarkable.
Shed been resolute since throwing her husband out; not a single tear had fallen. He wasnt worth it.
Wonderful, she said, standing and steadying her hat. Good day to you.
When Anne stepped out onto the street, she wore a genuine, faintly triumphant smile. She had endured. Shed prevailed. Carrying a small cake in her bag, she walked home lightly, as if a weight had been lifted.
A little gift to myself, she whispered, not really addressing anyone. For my patience.
Patience indeed. Throwing him out was one thing; living with it afterward was another. But now, it was over.
Instead of heading home, she went to her friend Marys flat upstairs. Setting the bag on the kitchen table, Anne retrieved a bottle of white wine from the fridge and two crystal glasses from the cupboard.
Well, Mary, she began, pretending to gauge her longtime friends mood. Ready to celebrate?
Mary Johnson, also no spring chicken but still spirited and feisty, didnt need convincing. Of course, lets celebrate! Why wouldnt we? What are we celebrating? Or does it even matter at our age?
Anne didnt delay. I filed for divorce.
Mary almost spilled the wine in shock.
You what? Anne, are you serious? After forty years? Just like that?
Forty years, Anne repeated thoughtfully. Patience, you see, has an expiration date. Mine, apparently, has passed.
But what did he do?
Well, said Anne, with just a hint of residual hurt, hes got a son. On the side. Twenty-five years old.
That cant be
No joke. A whole quarter of a century living with a lie.
Mary, for once, had no further questions. She raised her glass.
To new beginnings!
To new beginnings! Anne echoed cheerily.
And how did your husband react?
Anne considered before speaking. How do you think? He was livid. But honestly, I wasnt looking for his opinions. I went and did it.
Mary shook her head in confusion. No wonder your Steves been walking around looking utterly miserable. But how are you going to coexist with him now?
I wont. Divorce means hes out of my house.
Not long after, Annes mobile, sitting on the table, buzzed. She ignored it, silencing the call.
My son keeps calling, she said with mild exasperation. He cant accept that were divorcing.
Hell get over it, Mary said with a nonchalant wave. Hes had two divorces of his own already.
True enough.
Mary, ever the busybody, eventually tried probing more details, but Anne smoothly deflected, weaving their conversation into stories of their youth.
Remember when we met Steve? You and I had gone to that dance. He looked so charming then, didnt he? White shirt, dashing smile
Men like him, Mary chuckled, turn out to be frogs dressed as princes.
Or something entirely less pleasant, Anne added, And to think, I never even dated anyone else. Married him almost immediately. A mistake, it seems.
Well, no use in crying over spilt milk
Her phone sprang to life again. By the third time it buzzed, Anne turned it off completely.
Let them wait, she muttered.
Later that evening, Annes son, Victor, barged in like a whirlwind.
Mum, where have you been? Did you really file for divorce?
She sat calmly and pulled out the documents. Of course I did. You seem surprised?
Victor ran his hands through his hair. Mum, I thought your marriage meant something to you! Are you really throwing it all away because of some ancient mistake?
Ancient? Anne raised an eyebrow. Your father has a son he hid from me for twenty-five years!
And that was twenty-five years ago! Mum, cant you forgive and focus on the good years youve had together?
Anne remained firm. Some betrayals dont have a statute of limitations, Victor.
He stormed out in frustration, but Anne only sighed. She could handle him. And Steve? She wouldnt let him worm his way back in. As the evening deepened, she placed a record on her player, letting the music fill her cosy flat. For the first time in decades, she felt a spark of liberation. A feeling she hadnt experienced since long before Steve came along.
And the lesson Ive learned? Love needs honesty at its core; without that, its just an illusion youre left holding onto. Lifes too short for illusions.
