Too weary to scream or weep. Only profound numbness. I turned, leaving the hospital's disinfectant despair. Back "home," echoes of Mark's accusations and Sophie's cries lingered. Calmly, I entered the study, opened the laptop. Found the long-saved document—"Divorce Agreement." Mouse clicks echoed. The printer whirred, spitting thin pages.
Last Supper
I signed meticulously at the bottom: Emily. Mark returned that night, reeking of hospital and fatigue. Quietly, I slid the signed papers across the table, dinner beside them. He froze, staring first at the document, then at me—bewilderment flashing to panic. "Emily? What... is this?" Voice cracked.
Belated Regret
"Divorce, Mark." My tone was level—no rage, no blame, no sorrow. "Signed. Review it; if acceptable, sign. House, savings... split as you wish." He blanched. He scanned the papers, then me. Abruptly, he rushed round the table, seizing my shoulders with bruising force. "No! Impossible! Emily, I'm wrong! So wrong!" Words tumbled—frantic, terrified. "I shouldn't have accused! Fear crazed me! Lies! Forget it! No divorce! I'll change! I swear it! Talk to Sophie now! Stop interfering! Trust me! Just once!"
A Familiar Chime
I gazed at his bloodshot eyes, twisted anguish, and raw remorse. Over eight years, I'd heard such vows too often. After every fight, apologies, promises. Then, Sophie's ringtone inevitably chimed, erasing all pledges. Gently, I pried his hands from my shoulders. "Too late, Mark." Whispered. "You two are family. Always were."
