Look Closer

Dawn. I couldn’t sleep, with everything coming to a head now, with the cliff fast approaching. I’m drawing up the document myself. It’s not rocket science, after all. I’m a lawyer, and I know all the information, and it’s not that difficult to figure out the elements of a cause of action to terminate a marriage. You’re married, you don’t want to be anymore, you tried to make it work, and it’s not going to work.

I slurp some coffee and review what I have so far:

IN THE CIRCUIT COURT OF COOK COUNTY, ILLINOIS COUNTY DEPARTMENT, DOMESTIC RELATIONS DIVISION

In re the Marriage of:

SIMON PETER DOBIAS,

Petitioner,

v.

VICTORIA LANIER DOBIAS,

Respondent.

No.

PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE

Now comes the Petitioner, Simon P. Dobias, and for his Petition for Dissolution of Marriage against the Respondent, Victoria Lanier Dobias, states as follows:

The Petitioner, Simon Peter Dobias, is 37 years old and a resident of the Village of Grace Park, County of Cook, State of Illinois.

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.