While I Was Dying, My Husband Prepared for Her Baby

Marcus Webb's office sat on the forty-third floor of a glass tower in Midtown. The waiting room had leather chairs and magazines nobody read. I sat with my hands folded in my lap and watched the receptionist type.

At 2:15 PM exactly, Webb opened his door. He was maybe sixty, gray suit, silver glasses. He shook my hand once and gestured me inside.

"Mrs. Mitchell," he said, settling behind his desk. "You mentioned on the phone this is time-sensitive."

"I need divorce papers prepared immediately. Filed within the week."

He pulled a legal pad closer. "Does your husband know you're filing?"

"No."

"Are there children?"

"No."

"Contested assets? Property disputes?"

"I want nothing from the Mitchell estate," I said. "No alimony. No property. Just the legal dissolution."

Webb looked at me over his glasses. "Mrs. Mitchell, given your husband's financial position, you're entitled to—"

"I don't want anything."

He studied me for a moment. Then he nodded and started writing.

I gave him Kieran's information. Our marriage date. The apartment address. I signed the retainer agreement without reading it. My hand didn't shake.

"I'll have the documents ready by tomorrow afternoon," Webb said. "You can pick them up here, or I can messenger them."

"I'll pick them up."

He walked me to the door. "Mrs. Mitchell? Are you certain about the asset waiver? Once these are filed—"

"I'm certain."

The elevator ride down felt longer than the ride up. I watched the numbers descend and thought about nothing at all.

The next afternoon I returned to Webb's office. He handed me a manila envelope, thick with papers.

"Everything's prepared," he said. "You'll both need to sign. Once filed, there's a mandatory waiting period, but given the lack of contested assets, the finalization should be straightforward."

I held the envelope against my chest. "Thank you."

"Mrs. Mitchell." Webb's voice stopped me at the door. "I hope you have support. Whatever you're going through."

I smiled. It felt like something I'd learned a long time ago and still remembered how to do. "I'm fine."

At home, I spread the papers on the kitchen table. Twenty-three pages. Legal language that turned ten years into bullet points. I signed every place marked with a yellow tab. My signature looked exactly the same as it had in Dr. Cho's office. Still steady. Still mine.

I went to the closet and pulled down the box from the top shelf—the one that held our wedding album and old birthday cards. Beneath those I found what I needed: a Montblanc pen set Kieran had received from a client two Christmases ago and never opened. The box was navy blue leather with gold hinges.

I removed the pens. Set them aside. The divorce papers fit perfectly in the velvet-lined interior.

I wrapped the box in silver paper. Added a white ribbon. Wrote a card: *For all the important documents ahead. Love, T.*

Kieran came home at seven. I heard his keys in the door, his shoes in the hall.

"Tessa?"

"Kitchen."

He appeared in the doorway, tie loosened, looking tired. "Something smells good."

"Pasta. It'll be ready in ten minutes." I dried my hands on a towel. "I got you something. A late Valentine's gift."

I handed him the silver box.

His face softened. "You didn't have to—"

"Open it."

He pulled the ribbon. Lifted the lid. The divorce papers sat in the velvet lining, folded precisely, my signatures visible on the bottom of the top page.

"It's a pen set," I said. "For signing important things. Actually, could you do me a favor? I need you to co-sign a card for my parents. Their anniversary is next week and I keep forgetting."

I pointed to the signature line on the top document. "Just here."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen. Dayana.

"Hold on," he said, answering. "Hey. No, I'm home. What's wrong?"

He walked toward the living room, phone pressed to his ear. "Okay. Okay. Breathe. I'm sure it's nothing. Did you call the doctor?"

I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched him pace.

"I'll come over," he said. "Right now. Twenty minutes."

He ended the call and turned back to me, already reaching for his jacket. "Dayana's having contractions. False labor, probably, but I should—"

"Sign the card first," I said. "It'll take five seconds."

He grabbed the Montblanc pen from the box without looking. Uncapped it. I pointed to the signature line and he signed, quick and careless, the way he signed everything that wasn't a contract.

"Thanks," he said, already moving toward the door. "Don't wait up. I might be late."

The door closed behind him.

I stood alone in the kitchen. The pasta water had started to boil. I turned off the stove.

I picked up the divorce papers. Kieran's signature sat next to mine, black ink on white paper. Legal. Binding. Done.

I slid the documents back into the manila envelope. Tomorrow I would return to Webb's office. He would file them. In a few weeks—maybe less—I would be legally free.

And Kieran would never know until it was already finished.

I set the table for one. Served myself pasta. Ate in silence.

The apartment was very quiet.

I washed my plate. Dried it. Put it away.

Then I went to bed and lay in the dark, waiting for the pain medication to pull me under.