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“We were surviving,” I answered softly. “That’s not the same.”
The divorce was amicable. Painful, but calm. After signing the papers, our lawyer suggested we go to a café down the street.
“Closure,” he said gently.
I agreed. A final, civilized moment.
The café was warm and smelled of coffee and sugar. We sat across from each other, menus in hand. For a brief second, I thought maybe this was it—the peaceful ending.
The waitress arrived, smiling. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have the vegetable soup,” Charles said automatically. Then he looked at me and added, “And she’ll have the chicken salad. Dressing on the side.”
The waitress turned to me.
Something inside my chest cracked open.
“I—” I started, then stopped. Fifty years of swallowed words pressed against my throat.
“No,” I said, louder than I meant to. “I’ll decide.”
Charles blinked, confused. “I was just—”
“This,” I snapped, my hands shaking. “This is exactly why I never want to be with you.”
The café went silent around us.
“I’m not your child,” I said, tears spilling now. “I’m not an extension of you. I am a person who never got to choose.”
I stood, my chair scraping loudly. “I’m done.”
And I walked out.
The next day, Charles called. Once. Twice. Then again.
I didn’t answer.
When the phone rang later that afternoon, I expected voicemail. But it was our lawyer.