The Respondent, Victoria Lanier Dobias, is 36 years old and a resident of the Village of Grace Park, County of Cook, State of Illinois.
The parties were married on the 3rd day of November, 2012, in Playa del Carmen, Mexico.
Irreconcilable differences have arisen between the parties that have caused the irretrievable breakdown of the marriage. Past efforts at reconciliation have failed, and future attempts at reconciliation would be impracticable.
“Irreconcilable differences,” the phrase that launched a thousand ships, the legal term that describes in bland terms the countless different complexities that compel a couple once in love to go their separate ways.
“I’m not right for you,” Vicky said, the first time I proposed to her, though in hindsight, I think she meant that I wasn’t right for her. “Our differences would be irreconcilable,” she might as well have said. And she would have been right.
I walk down the hallway from my home office to the bedroom. Vicky is asleep, her face buried in the pillow.
“The best part of my life is you,” my mother said to me on what ended up being the last day I saw her alive, sitting in our kitchen, her wheelchair parked next to the dinner table. It was difficult for her to speak. It came out like her tongue was heavy, like she was intoxicated, which might not have been far from the truth if you consider the painkillers she was taking.
I took her hands and kissed them. “The best part of my life is you.”
She made a disapproving sound, closed her eyes, and shook her head. “I hope one day . . . that isn’t true. Prom—promise me . . . you’ll have children. You’ll never know . . . such love.”
“Sure, Mom, I’m sure I will,” I said, having no idea she was giving me parting advice. Looking back, it should have been more obvious to me.
At that point, at age nineteen, the concept of having a serious relationship, much less children, was not on my immediate horizon. My one and only attempt at romance, with Lauren, had failed in spectacular fashion. I hadn’t just gotten my hand too close to the stove. I’d dropped my hand flat on the burner and watched it sizzle. So I gave my mother those reassurances without much feeling. Sure, I’d have kids. Yeah, sure, someday . . .
She was no longer herself, no longer that boisterous, energetic soul with the wide smile and singsong voice and infectious laugh. But the stroke hadn’t robbed her of all her mental faculties. She knew when she was being coddled, dismissed with empty words.
Her weak right hand gripped mine with force. “Promise . . . me.”
“Okay, I promise, Mom. I promise I’ll have kids.”
I do want children. I told Vicky that the first time I proposed to her. I gave her a little speech, how I wanted to marry her and have babies, to be a family that was honest and open and took care of each other. Us against the world—a team, a mighty, happy team.
And her words: “I’m not right for you.” It took me too long to realize she was right.
I wish it could have been different for us, Vicky. I really do.
I return to the office and open my green journal.
Tuesday, October 25, 2022
I was beginning to think it would never happen, that the promise I made to my mother would never come true. I’d become okay with it, actually. Time had passed, I wasn’t getting any younger, as they say, and I came to think that my life was fine just the way it was.
You have redefined everything for me, Lauren. You have shown me what is possible. You’ve made me realize how much more I wanted from life.
I promise you this: I will do everything I can to make sure our child feels loved and protected. I will give you and our child everything I’m capable of giving.
You didn’t even have to say it, Lauren. Everything is different now. I’m editing the divorce petition right now. My lawyer needs me to fill in some personal information and details, but I’ll be sure to get it ready and filed before—yes, before—November 3.
Wednesday, November 2, to be precise, the day before, just one day before D-Day, Anniversary 10. I already have the date locked in with my lawyer. He couldn’t do it earlier, but that’s okay, one day before is just as good as one week before. We will finalize the divorce petition and file it.
It feels good, locking that in, cementing the plan.
You’re right, Lauren, about everything. I shouldn’t have to settle. I shouldn’t have to settle for someone who doesn’t love me. I shouldn’t have to settle for someone who refuses to have children.
And I shouldn’t have to give Vicky half the money. It’s not her money. It’s our money. Yours, mine, and the baby’s.
And you’re right about when I should break this to Vicky.
“Tell her after you’ve filed,” you said to me.
That hadn’t been my plan. “I shouldn’t tell her beforehand?”
“File it first,” you said. “Then tell her. Trust me.”
I guess that’s the old adage, right? Better to seek forgiveness than permission.
As I finish the entry in my green journal, I tap my phone to see the time.
“Oh, shit.”
It’s after seven. I’m late, very late for my eight a.m. class. I guess I got caught up in what I was doing.
I hurry out of the office, pass the bedroom, and peek in. Vicky is still asleep, a slight whistle in her breathing.
I do wish things had been different.
53
Vicky
I wake from a nightmare, the sound of an anguished cry fading away as I open my eyes. I pop up in bed and grab my phone. It’s nearly nine in the morning.
I stretch, use the bathroom, and walk out of the bedroom. Down the hall, the light is still on in Simon’s office. I can’t help but smile. He knows how much I hate wasting electricity, how much I pinch pennies, a vestige of years of living payday to payday. Sometimes, I think he leaves on lights just to needle me, a little joke.
I go downstairs to the kitchen. There is coffee, the remnants of a pot that Simon made when he first got up at the crack of dawn. Usually, he makes a fresh thermos that awaits me when I get up. And usually, his travel mug is gone.
This morning, no fresh coffee. And his travel mug is resting on the kitchen island, top off, empty. He must have lost track of time and hurried out the door. I thought I heard him bounding down the stairs in a rush. Simon hates, hates, hates being late.
I make my own coffee and carry a cup upstairs. Glance at that light on in Simon’s office.
When I enter his office, his personal laptop is open on the desk, a green notebook sitting next to it.
The screensaver is on, a cartoon of Uncle Sam as Pac-Man, Pac-Sam, gobbling up constitutional rights as he moves about the screen.
I sit down at the desk and tap the keyboard. The password box appears.
I don’t need to rummage through his sock drawer to find his list of passwords. I already know the password to his laptop.
It’s I_Love_Vicky.