Too Late For Apologies, Andrew

My husband, Andrew, a promising politician, asked me for a divorce for the eighth time.

It was always the same drill: his 'childhood best friend,' Gabby, would throw a tantrum, threaten his mayoral campaign, and he' d oblige, promising to "fix it later."

This time, the exhaustion was bone-deep, but when we sat in our lawyer' s office, something felt different.

Chloe, the paralegal, grimly asked if she should schedule the reconciliation filing for next month, as usual.

"There won't be a next time," I heard myself say, shocking even myself.

But Andrew, ever the politician, just gave a weak, placating excuse about calming Gabby, just like always.

Later, I walked into our brownstone to find Gabby and Andrew in the kitchen, laughing amidst a flour-dusted mess.

My obsessively neat husband, covered in flour, asked if I could whip up Gabby's favorite coq au vin.

"No," I said, a word that felt foreign on my tongue.

Andrew' s face flushed; he shoved me, then dragged me by the arm and locked me in the dusty pantry, telling me I' d stay there until I learned to be "a supportive wife."

Hours later, Gabby opened the door, sneered, and drenched me with a bucket of ice water.

Something inside me, long dormant, snapped.

I lunged, swung the empty bucket, and caught her head with a dull thud.

Andrew rushed in, saw Gabby crying, grabbed a handful of my wet hair, and roared, "You crazy bitch! Apologize to her, or get the hell out of my house right now!"

"Okay," I said, pulling out my phone.

He looked confused. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, I'll get out."

I finally dialed Wesley, my old architecture mentor, the man Andrew had demanded I cut out of my life years ago.

"Wesley?" I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "Can you... can you come get me?"

He didn' t ask why. "Send me the address. I'm on my way."

This time, there was no turning back.

For the eighth time, Andrew asked me for a divorce.

The reason was simple. A lifestyle magazine published a small piece about the surprise anniversary trip he had planned for me. His childhood best friend, Gabby, saw it. She threw a fit, threatening to go to the press with some fabricated scandal that would destroy his run for mayor.

I felt nothing. Just a deep, familiar exhaustion.

"Okay, Andrew."

We sat in our lawyer' s office, a place so familiar it felt like a second home. The paralegal, a young woman named Chloe, saw us and gave a tired smile.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lester. Good to see you. Should I schedule the reconciliation filing for next month?"

Andrew laughed awkwardly, a politician' s habit. "You know how it is, Chloe."

I looked at her, my voice quiet but firm.

"There won' t be a next time."

Chloe' s smile vanished. She looked from me to Andrew, who was already shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the air conditioner humming. Andrew finally broke the silence, his voice a low, placating murmur meant only for me.

"Maddy, come on. We' ve been through this. It' s just to calm Gabby down. You know how she gets. Once the campaign is in full swing, I' ll fix it. I promise."

I didn' t look at him. I had heard that promise seven times before. It was as empty as the space in my chest.

Our lawyer, Mr. Davison, came in. He looked more like a tired referee than a legal professional. He slid the papers across the mahogany desk.

"The usual terms, Andrew, Madisyn? No changes?"

"No changes," I said, picking up the pen.

Andrew put on a show of defending me, a weak, performative act for the lawyer' s benefit. "Maddy has been so understanding through all this. She' s a saint, really."

His words felt like ash in my mouth. I signed my name, my hand steady. Madisyn Johns. Not Madisyn Lester. It was a small act of rebellion.

I slid the papers over to him. He hesitated, his eyes pleading with me. But then his phone buzzed. A text from Gabby, no doubt. His face hardened. He signed his name with a quick, angry flourish.

It was done. Again.

Outside the law office, the city air felt heavy and humid. Andrew immediately walked over to Gabby, who was waiting by his black sedan. She was leaning against the passenger door, a triumphant smirk on her face.

He put his arms around her, whispering something that made her smile. She glanced over his shoulder and her eyes met mine. The smirk widened.

He started to walk back toward me, but Gabby grabbed his arm, her voice loud enough for me to hear.

"Andrew, what are you doing? It' s inappropriate for you to be seen with your... ex-wife. Especially with your re-election campaign starting. People will talk."

Andrew stopped. He looked torn, but only for a second. He gave me a weak, apologetic shrug from across the pavement.

"I' m sorry, Maddy. I' ll call you later. I' ll fix this, just... once Gabby calms down."

He got in the car with her and drove away, leaving me standing on the curb.

I took a cab back to the brownstone we once shared. The key still worked. I let myself in, my mind replaying the reasons for the last seven divorce filings. They were a parade of absurdity.

The first time, Gabby was upset Andrew missed her dog' s birthday party. The third, she had a nightmare that he was abandoning her and woke up hysterical. The sixth, she didn' t like a dress I wore to a fundraiser. Each time, Andrew capitulated. Each time, he promised it was the last time.

The house was a mess. Flour dusted every surface of the kitchen, and a sticky, burned smell hung in the air. I found Andrew and Gabby in the middle of the chaos, laughing. He, the man who was obsessively neat, had flour in his hair and on his expensive suit. He looked happy.

He saw me and his smile faltered slightly. He grabbed a clean apron from a hook.

"Maddy, you' re back. Perfect timing. Gabby wants that coq au vin you make. Can you whip it up?"

I stared at him. Then I looked at the entitled expression on Gabby' s face. Something inside me, something I thought had died long ago, sparked.

"No."