The divorce papers arrived on a Tuesday morning.

A young courier stood on my doorstep, shifting his weight uncomfortably, clearly uneasy about handing an envelope to a sixty-four-year-old woman in a faded floral apron. I was still holding my first cup of coffee, steam rising lazily from the mug, when he asked for me by name.

“Catherine Stevens?”

I nodded, not yet sensing the ground about to disappear beneath my feet.

He explained, quietly and politely, that he needed my signature to confirm delivery. I glanced down at the words printed in bold at the top of the page and felt something inside me stall, like an engine that suddenly refuses to turn over.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

I read it once. Then again. Then a third time—slowly, desperately—before the meaning finally pushed through the shock that had wrapped itself around my mind like heavy fog.

Robert Stevens.
My husband of forty-two years.
The father of my three children.
The man who had promised to love me until death do us part.

He wasn’t asking for space.
He wasn’t suggesting counseling.
He was divorcing me.

“Ma’am,” the courier said gently, recognizing the hollow look in my eyes, “I just need your signature here.”

My hand trembled as I signed. When the door closed behind him, I leaned against it, pressing my forehead to the wood, as if I could somehow keep reality from entering the house.

Our house.