The courthouse was quiet, its sterile hallways echoing faint murmurs from other cases being heard. Anya sat on a wooden bench outside the courtroom, clutching her folder of paperwork. Her palms were clammy, her stomach in knots. This was the moment she had dreaded but also the one she knew she needed.
Victor arrived a few minutes later, looking as composed as ever. He wore his usual navy suit, the one that used to make Anya feel proud of him. Today, it only reminded her of how distant he had become.
"Anya," he said softly, sitting beside her.
She didn't look at him. "Victor."
"I'm sorry it came to this," he said, his voice heavy with something resembling regret.
She finally turned to face him, her gaze steady. "So am I. But we both know it's the right thing."
Victor didn't argue. Instead, he nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line.
---
Inside the courtroom, the judge reviewed their case with brisk efficiency. Their assets were minimal—no children, no shared businesses, and a home Anya had already agreed to relinquish. The process, while emotionally draining, was legally straightforward.
Victor's lawyer made a few points about the division of property, but Anya's lawyer countered calmly. It was over within an hour.
When the judge finalized the divorce, declaring them no longer husband and wife, Anya felt an odd mixture of relief and sorrow. She had expected to feel more—more pain, more anger, more regret—but instead, she felt a quiet calm settle over her.
As they left the courthouse, Victor walked beside her.
"Will you be okay?" he asked, his tone hesitant.
Anya stopped and looked at him, truly looked at him, for what felt like the first time in years. "I think I will be. But I hope you'll figure out what you really want, Victor. And when you do, I hope you treat it better than you treated us."
He opened his mouth to respond, but she didn't wait to hear it. Turning on her heel, she walked away, her heels clicking confidently against the pavement.
---
That evening, Anya returned to her apartment. She opened a bottle of wine, lit a candle, and sat by the window, watching the city lights twinkle against the dark sky.
It was the first night in years she spent truly alone—not lonely, but alone in the best sense of the word.
She thought about the woman she had been when she married Victor: hopeful, eager to please, and willing to compromise her happiness for the sake of someone else. That woman was gone, replaced by someone stronger, someone who had finally chosen herself.
Anya pulled out her journal and began to write:
"Today, I closed the door on the past. It's strange, but instead of feeling empty, I feel… full. Not with sadness, but with possibility. For the first time in years, the future feels like mine again."
---
The days that followed were filled with small victories. Anya finalized the lease on a quaint little storefront in the city, the perfect spot for her café. She began sketching designs for the interior, imagining the warm, inviting space she wanted to create.
Her friends rallied around her, offering support and encouragement. They had seen her struggles over the years, and now, they were cheering her on as she forged a new path.
One evening, her best friend, Clara, came over with a bottle of champagne.
"To new beginnings," Clara said, raising her glass.
Anya clinked her glass against Clara's, a genuine smile lighting up her face. "To new beginnings."
As they laughed and talked late into the night, Anya realized she hadn't felt this light in years. The weight of her failed marriage, of her insecurities and doubts, was finally lifting.
She was free.