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Considering that it lasted only ten minutes, it was surprisingly grueling.
I’m sure there’s a sound reason they asked the questions they did, and yet each one seemed specifically designed to twist the knife deeper. Why did they need me to state when and where we were married? Was there a point in making me recite the children’s names and birth dates? And the address of the house?
All of this information was on paperwork directly in front of both the judge and the lawyer, paperwork that I’d filled out many months ago with blood instead of ink. Did they really have to hear the information from my mouth?
I stumbled over the date of the marriage even though my mind was already too much on that day. As we’d walked the two blocks from my lawyer’s office to the courthouse, I was struck with the similarities between the two days. The marriage and the court date were separated by some six months (and many years), but they both featured rapidly falling temperatures, heavy winds and strong storms.
Eerie.
Nearly every question I fumbled, even such a simple thing as my age. I’d been throwing up (from stress or nerves or a bug) for the prior eighteen hours; between my peaked appearance and twisted tongue, the judge must have thought that he was speaking to not only a failure at marriage but also a complete idiot.
And then it was over. If things continue to go as they have gone (in other words, far better than I’d ever hoped), all that’s left is some final paperwork. A few more signatures. Another check or two written to the attorney.
Simple, right? Nothing to it. Nothing at all.



