I consider myself a loner, though I’m technically still married. My wife ran off right before our wedding ten years ago, and every year since, I get an envelope from her—new law firm, new initials, same glossy presentation. I read a bit, sigh, and stash it away. It’s a reminder of our “fake marriage.”
One morning, as I was cleaning the barn, Melanie’s envelope arrived again. She’d switched law firms. I shrugged. Later, my friend Billy showed up, making fun of the situation. I refused to sign the papers. If she wanted out, she needed to come say it, not hide behind envelopes.
Then, Melanie showed up. After ten years, she finally came to talk in person. The conversation quickly turned to the papers she wanted me to sign for her new wedding. I refused, still angry she ran without an explanation. She pushed for the signature, and I held firm—if she wanted her share, she needed to be honest about what she wanted.
We spent days in silence. Eventually, Billy told me I needed to talk to her, not just fix fences. Melanie was hiding from her past, but I was holding on to mine. After a confrontation in the pantry, we shared a quiet evening by a fire, realizing there was still something between us. But when her fiancé showed up, the tension flared again. She left to join him, but not without me signing the papers.
Later, as I sat with my dog, I realized I couldn’t let her walk away again. I rushed to the airport, but she was already on her way out. However, she turned back, realizing she couldn’t go through with it. The divorce was officially off when she tore up the papers and promised to never let me wear that hideous sweater again.
We walked back home, together this time, where it was warm, quiet, and we were finally in no rush to leave.
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