The tension that had lived in my shoulders for months finally loosened.
Milo trotted over and rested his head on my leg, tail thumping softly.
"It's just us now, buddy," I said, scratching his ears. "And look at that. We finally have peace and pancakes."
I sat back down, poured another cup of coffee, and stared at the empty seat across from me.
For the first time in a long time, it didn't feel lonely.
It felt earned.
Like quiet was no longer the absence of noise, but the presence of sanity.
The phone buzzed.
A text from Tar.
Did she get the note?
I smiled and typed back.
She got the deluxe package. Screaming, denial, exit slam. 10 out of 10 performance.
He replied with a laughing emoji.
Damn, man. You're free.
Free.
The word looked good on the screen.
I leaned back, watching the morning light spill across the kitchen.
The same kitchen that had heard every fight, every fake apology, every lie.
Today it felt new.
Lighter.
Like the house itself was relieved she was gone.
I grabbed my phone again and opened my playlist.
Song number one, "Don't Stop Me Now."
Fitting.
I turned up the volume until Milo's ears perked.
Dancing in pajama pants at 8 a.m. wasn't on my bucket list, but freedom does strange things to a man.
I sang along off-key, flipping pancakes with one hand and air-guitaring with a spatula in the other.
Halfway through the song, I caught my reflection in the microwave door.
Messy hair.
Wrinkled T-shirt.
Ridiculous grin.
And I thought, Yeah, this guy's going to be okay.
Before heading out to meet Mrs. Delgado to file the final set of documents, I cleaned the kitchen, fed Milo, and tucked the envelope back into my drawer.
A keepsake.
Not of her, but of the moment I took my life back.
As I grabbed my keys, I noticed her mug still sitting on the counter.
Lipstick print and all.
I considered throwing it out, then decided against it.
No.
Let it stay.
A reminder of what blind trust costs.
I walked to the door, sunlight spilling across the floor.
I took a deep breath, smiled, and whispered to myself, "Welcome to your new morning routine."
Then I stepped outside.
Coffee in one hand.
Freedom in the other.
If you've never been to divorce court, let me paint you a picture.
It's like The Office meets jury duty.
The same awkward silences, the same forced smiles, and absolutely no snacks.
Everyone's pretending to be civilized while secretly calculating how many ways they can ruin each other before lunch.
Walking in that morning, I felt oddly calm.
Maybe it was the coffee.
Maybe it was the relief that this circus was finally reaching its last act.
Belinda, meanwhile, looked like she'd spent the night wrestling her conscience and lost.
She was sitting two rows ahead, pretending to scroll through her phone like she wasn't fighting the urge to hurl it at me.
Her lawyer sat beside her.
Some guy named Derek with slicked-back hair and an ego so shiny it could have been used as a mirror.