18. Rowan
— ? —
Rowan
Day One
The papers sit on the kitchen table like a bomb with a timer I can’t see.
I’ve read the first page six times. In the Matter of the Marriage of Audrey Callahan and Rowan Callahan. Legal language, clinical and cold, describing the dissolution of everything I’ve spent fifteen years building.
Dissolution. Like our marriage is a chemical compound that can simply be separated back into its component parts.
Lily’s at school. Audrey’s at work. The rental is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of my own breathing.
She said to read them. To think about what I want.
I know what I want. I want to tear these papers into confetti and pretend they never existed.
I want to go back three months and delete every text I ever sent to Maryse.
I want to be the man Audrey thought she married - the one who deserved her, who would never hurt her, who didn’t carry this cowardice like a cancer in his chest.
But wanting doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
I turn to page two.
The custody section nearly breaks me.
Joint custody. Like Lily is a piece of property to be divided.
Like Tuesday-Thursday-alternating-weekends could ever replace the weight of her small body climbing into my lap, the sound of her laugh echoing through the house, the way she says “Daddy” like it’s the most important word in any language.
You did this, I tell myself. You texted another woman for three months while your daughter was sleeping down the hall. You don’t get to be sad about losing her now.
But I am sad. I’m so sad I can barely breathe.
I put the papers down and walk to Lily’s room instead.
Her bed is unmade - she never makes it, no matter how many times we remind her - and Mr. Buttons is propped against the pillow, one eye slightly crooked from where Audrey sewed it back on after the washing machine incident. I pick him up, feel the worn velvet under my fingers.
I ran into a burning building for this rabbit.
Why can’t I find that same courage now?
The answer is obvious, isn’t it? Running into fire is easy. The fear is immediate, physical, something you can push through with adrenaline and instinct. This - reading these papers, deciding whether to sign them - requires something else entirely. Something I’ve never been good at.
Staying in the hard places.
***
Day Two
Mom calls at 8 AM.
“How are you holding up?”
“Fine.”
“You’re not fine. I can hear it in your voice.” She pauses. “Have you signed them yet?”
“I’m reading them.”
“For two days?”
“There’s a lot to read.”
“There’s nothing to read.” Her voice is sharp. “There’s just you, sitting in that apartment, trying to figure out if you’re brave enough to fight for your marriage.”
“It’s not about bravery. She filed for divorce, Mom. She wants out.”
“Does she?”
“She handed me the papers. What else would that mean?”
Mom is quiet for a long moment. “When your father proposed to me, I said no.”
“What?”
“The first time. I said no. I told him I needed to see if he’d ask again - if he wanted me enough to risk rejection twice.” She laughs softly. “Took him three months to work up the courage. I was starting to think I’d made a terrible mistake.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” I can hear her choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes people push to see if you’ll push back. Sometimes no is really a question.”
“You think the divorce papers are a question?”
“I think you should consider all possibilities before you sign away your family.”
After she hangs up, I sit with the phone in my hand for a long time.
Sometimes no is really a question.
But that’s not what’s happening here. Audrey isn’t testing me. She’s protecting herself. She’s drawing a line because I crossed too many others.
The kind thing would be to sign. The noble thing. She wants out, so give her out.
You don’t deserve to fight for her. Not after what you did.
Lily comes home from school with a picture she made in art class.
“It’s our family,” she says, holding it up proudly. “See? That’s you, and that’s Mommy, and that’s me, and that’s our house.”
I look at the picture. Four figures - she’s drawn herself between me and Audrey, holding both our hands. The house behind us is seafoam green, the way the cottage used to be before the fire.
“It’s beautiful, baby.”
“It’s for when our new house is ready. I’m going to hang it in my room.” She tilts her head, studying my face. “Daddy, why do you look sad?”
“I’m not sad. I’m just-” I search for words. “Daddy’s thinking about some grown-up stuff.”
“What kind of grown-up stuff?”
Whether to sign divorce papers that will split our family in half. Whether your mother will ever forgive me. Whether I deserve forgiveness at all.
“Boring stuff. Paperwork.”
“Oh.” She loses interest immediately. “Can I have a snack?”
“Sure, baby. Check the pantry.”
She scampers off, and I look at the picture again.
Four figures. All holding hands.
She doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t know that everything might change.
I fold the picture carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I go back to the kitchen table and pick up the papers.
Sign them, a voice whispers. If you love her, let her go. Give her the freedom to build a life without you dragging her down.
But what if Mom’s right? What if this is a test?
It’s not a test. You’re not that lucky. You don’t get a fairy-tale ending after what you did.
I turn to the signature page.
***
Day Three
I’ve been sitting at this table since 5 AM.
The rental is dark and quiet. Everyone’s still asleep. Just me and the papers and the pen that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
Thirty days to respond. If I don’t sign, we go to mediation. Lawyers. Fighting in front of strangers.
If I do sign, it’s over in sixty to ninety days.
I think about the storm. About Audrey’s hand in mine across Lily’s sleeping body. About the words she whispered in the dark: I’m not ready to let go either.
But that was before the papers. Before she made it official.
I think about the movie night. The grape soda and the Christmas lights. The way she laughed at the terrible backflipping jewel thief, really laughed, for the first time in months.
But she still didn’t let me kiss her. She’s still holding back.
I think about Boston. About the bag I packed nine years ago. About all the times I’ve chosen to run instead of stay.
This is what you do, the voice whispers. You run. You’ve always run. And signing these papers is just another version of running - but at least this time you’re running because she asked you to.
Is that what love looks like? Giving someone what they’re asking for, even when it breaks you?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
But I know this: I hurt her. I broke something precious, and no amount of staying on a pullout couch or making coffee or fixing rattling windows can undo that damage.
She deserves better than me. She always has.
And if she’s asking me to let her go, who am I to refuse?
The pen is in my hand.
Page one. In the Matter of the Marriage. I sign.
Page two. Division of Assets. I sign.
Page three. Custody Arrangement. My hand trembles, but I sign.
Page after page, line after line, my signature appearing steady and clear even though my whole body is shaking.
This is the right thing. This is the loving thing. She wants out, so give her out.
Then why does it feel like the worst thing I’ve ever done?
I reach the final page. One more signature, and it’s finished.
She’ll be free. Free of me and my failures and my endless, pathetic inability to be the man she deserved.
I think about Lily’s picture in my pocket. Four figures holding hands.
I’m so sorry, baby girl. Daddy tried.
I sign.
The pen falls from my fingers. I stare at the completed documents, every line filled in, every signature in place.
I thought this would feel noble. Selfless. Like I was finally putting her needs above my own.
Instead, I feel hollowed out. Like I’ve carved out something vital and left it bleeding on the table.
Why does the right thing feel like the worst thing I’ve ever done?
The sun is starting to rise. Soon Audrey will wake up, and she’ll find these papers, and she’ll know I chose to let her go.
And she’ll be grateful, I tell myself. Eventually, she’ll be grateful.
But somewhere deep in my gut, underneath all the rationalizing and noble self-sacrifice, a small voice is screaming.
You coward. You fucking coward. She wanted you to fight, and you’re running again. Just like Boston. Just like always.
I ignore the voice. I leave the papers on the table. I go outside to sit on the back steps and watch the sun come up.
And I try very hard not to think about whether my mother was right.
Sometimes no is really a question.
But I was too scared to answer it.