27. Elise
ELISE
I was at Mara's kitchen table when my phone rang.
The morning light was pale across the counter, the kind of weak March sun that promised nothing.
Mara had made coffee an hour ago, and I was holding the mug with both hands, not drinking it.
The heat felt good against my palms. My phone sat next to me on the table, face up, and when it buzzed the sound was loud in the quiet kitchen.
Caroline's name showed on the screen. My lawyer.
God.
My stomach dropped. I stared at the phone for another second, watching it vibrate against the wood, and then I picked it up before I could think too hard about what it meant that she was calling me this early.
"Hello?"
"Elise," Caroline said. Her voice was calm, the kind of calm that came with good news or terrible news, and I couldn't tell which. "I'm calling because the papers came through this morning. The divorce is final."
The words landed flat, like something heavy hitting the floor. Final. I'd signed the papers weeks ago. I'd known they were coming. But hearing it said out loud was different, like the air had changed pressure in the room and I had to wait for my ears to adjust.
"Okay," I said.
My voice sounded small. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Okay."
"That's it," Caroline said. "You're officially divorced as of today. The court processed everything yesterday afternoon, and the judgment came through this morning. If you need certified copies I can send them to you, but the court has everything on file."
"Thank you." My voice still sounded like someone else's, like I was underwater. "I'll let you know."
"Take care, Elise," Caroline said, and there was something kind in her voice, something that made my throat tighten. "Call me if you need anything."
"I will."
I set the phone down. My hand was steady, which surprised me. I looked at it for a second, my fingers against the table, and then I looked up at Mara across from me. She was watching me with her mug halfway to her mouth, frozen, waiting.
"It's done," I said. "The divorce is final."
Mara set her mug down carefully, like she was afraid it might break. She didn't say anything. She just looked at me, and I could see her trying to decide what I needed — whether to be happy for me or sorry, whether to ask questions or stay quiet. I didn't know either. I didn't know what I felt.
I took a breath. The coffee had gone lukewarm in my hands, but I held onto it anyway, like I needed something to anchor me to the chair.
The kitchen felt too bright. Too ordinary.
Like the kind of morning where nothing was supposed to happen, where you drank coffee and talked about the weather and didn't get a phone call that ended your marriage.
Except the marriage had already ended. This was just the paperwork catching up.
"Are you okay?" Mara asked.
"I don't know."
I set the mug down and pressed my palms flat against the table. The wood was cool under my hands, solid. Real. My heart was beating too fast, and I didn't know if it was panic or relief or something else entirely.
"I want to say something," I said.
Mara nodded. "Okay."
I didn't know how to start. My throat felt tight, and I swallowed against it, annoyed with myself for being nervous when this was just Mara.
Just my friend. The one person who had listened to all of it without telling me what to do, without trying to fix me or talk me into going back or staying gone.
"I want to make a list," I said. "Of what I want."
"All right."
The words felt fragile coming out of my mouth, like if I said them wrong they'd disappear. I could feel my pulse in my fingertips, in my throat, in my chest. My whole body was waiting for me to get this right.
"I want a husband who says my name," I said.
The words came out quieter than I meant, but they were there. Real. Mara didn't move, didn't interrupt, and I kept going because if I stopped I'd lose my nerve.
"I want a husband who speaks up for me. Who doesn't let people call me the decorator when I chose every piece on the wall.
Who doesn't stay silent while his mother treats me like a woman who married him for his family's money, who doesn't let collectors think I'm the one who picked the flowers when I'm the one who picked the art. "
My voice cracked a little on the last part, and I stopped, embarrassed.
God, I sounded like a frivolous girl. Like someone who cared too much about the wrong things.
But that's who I was. Someone who wanted her husband to say her name at a podium.
Someone who wanted credit for eleven years of work nobody saw.
I looked down at my hands. My wedding ring was gone. The line where it used to sit had faded weeks ago, and now there was just skin. Bare. Like it had never been there at all.
"I want a husband who sees my eye and my work," I said.
"Who knows the difference between arranging flowers and convincing Anya Lindqvist to sign with the gallery.
Who knows what I gave up to be his wife.
Who knows I stopped showing my own work so I could build his career, and who cares that I did. "
Mara was quiet. I could hear the clock on the wall ticking, the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of my own breathing. The kitchen was so still it felt like the whole house was holding its breath.
"And I want room to paint," I said. "Not a secret. Not something I hide in a locked room where nobody goes. I want space for it. I want it to matter. I want to show my work again and not feel like I'm betraying him by doing it."
I stopped. My chest felt tight, like I'd been holding my breath and only just realized it. Like something in me had been clenched for so long I didn't know how to let go. I looked up at Mara, and she was still watching me, her expression soft and careful and sad in a way that made me want to cry.
"That's what I want," I said. "Those are the ones I told you before. Back when I thought a marriage was supposed to give me that. Back when I thought I was asking for too much."
Mara nodded slowly. She didn't say anything.
She didn't add to the list, didn't tell me I was asking for too much or too little or that I'd left something out.
She didn't try to fix it or solve it or tell me what to do next.
She just let it sit there between us, all of it, every want I'd named out loud again.
I picked up my coffee again. It was cold now, but I took a sip anyway, just to have something to do with my hands. The silence stretched out, not uncomfortable, just there. Heavy with everything I'd said and everything I hadn't.
"Do you think he can do it?" Mara asked finally. Her voice was gentle, like she knew she was stepping onto fragile ground and didn't want to push too hard.
"I don't know," I said.
And I didn't. He'd come here yesterday. He'd stood in Mara's living room and told me what I was to the gallery and to him, the whole eleven years I thought I'd been invisible.
He'd worked out the lie, every detail of it, without me having to explain.
He'd given me the answer I asked for at the door, the one I thought he'd never find.
But none of that was a promise. None of that was him saying my name in public or defending me to his mother or making space for my work where people could see it.
I wanted to believe it. God, I wanted to believe he could be the husband I needed.
That he'd learned something in the months I'd been gone.
That the man who painted me in the spare room could be the man who said my name at a gala, who spoke up for me when it mattered, who saw me the way I needed to be seen.
But wanting it and trusting it were different things.
"He told me everything I wanted to hear," I said. "But I've been married to him for eleven years, Mara. I know the difference between what he says in private and what he does when people are watching. I know what it's like to be loved at home and erased everywhere else."
Mara flinched a little at that, and I felt bad for saying it so bluntly. But it was true. That was the marriage. That was what I'd lived with for eleven years, and I didn't know if one conversation in a living room was enough to change it.
"So you're not going back," Mara said.
It wasn't a question, but it wasn't a statement either. Just Mara trying to understand, trying to figure out where I was in all of this.
"I didn't say that."
Mara tilted her head, confused now. "Then what are you saying?"
I set the mug down again and rubbed my hands over my face.
I was so tired. The kind of tired that lived in my bones and wouldn't let go no matter how much I slept.
I'd been running on adrenaline for months — surviving the gala, leaving, filing the papers, seeing the canvas, hearing him finally say what I'd needed to hear all along.
And now the divorce was final, and I was sitting in Mara's kitchen with a list of things I wanted, and I still didn't know what I was going to do.
"I'm saying I know what I want," I said. "And I'm saying I don't know if I'm going to take him back. I don't know if what he gave me yesterday is enough. I don't know if he can actually be the husband I need, or if he just knows how to say the right words when I'm standing in front of him."
Mara leaned back in her chair. She was quiet for a long moment, just looking at me like she was trying to work out a puzzle and couldn't find all the pieces.
"You don't have to decide today," she said finally.
"I know."
"You don't have to decide at all. You can just . . . live. Figure it out as you go. You can take your time."
I nodded. She was right. I knew she was right.
But it didn't make the weight in my chest any lighter.
The divorce was final. The marriage was over.
And somewhere across the city, Graham was probably sitting in that house we used to share, wondering if I was ever coming back.
Wondering if he'd done enough. Wondering if I'd forgiven him.
I hadn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I also hadn't closed the door completely, and I didn't know what that meant.
I didn't know. And for the first time in eleven years, I was okay with not knowing. I was okay with sitting in the uncertainty and not forcing myself to make a decision just because it was easier than waiting.
"Can I stay here a little longer?" I asked.
"Elise," Mara said, and her voice was warm now, almost laughing. "You can stay as long as you want. Patrick already told the kids you're living in the guest room forever. They're planning your furniture."
I smiled. It felt strange on my face, like I'd forgotten how. Like I'd spent so long being sad and angry and hurt that I didn't remember what it felt like to just be here, in this moment, with someone who cared about me.
"Tell them I said thank you," I said.
"Tell them yourself. They'll be home from school in three hours, and they're going to ask you a million questions about why you're still here and whether you're going to stay and if you want to come to the soccer game on Saturday."
"I'll tell them I like their mom's coffee."
"Liar," Mara said. "My coffee's terrible and you know it."
I laughed. It was a small sound, barely there, but it was real. Mara grinned at me, and for a second everything felt lighter. The phone was still on the table. The divorce was still final. The list was still sitting between us, invisible but there, every want I'd named out loud. But I wasn't alone.
Mara stood and took my mug. "I'm making you a fresh one. A good one this time. And then we're going to sit here and not talk about Graham for at least an hour. Deal?"
"Deal."
She turned to the counter, and I leaned back in my chair, letting the pale sunlight fall across my hands. The ring line was gone. The marriage was over. The divorce was final. And I still didn't know what I was going to do.
But I knew what I wanted.