I was nine months pregnant when the divorce papers arrived. Not during a dramatic confrontation. Not in the middle of some explosive argument.
They came by courier.
The doorbell rang on a dull gray Thursday morning. I waddled down the hallway, one hand pressed against my lower back, the other steadying myself against the wall because my center of gravity had completely disappeared.
When I opened the door, a young delivery driver smiled politely and held out a clipboard.
“Signature required,” he said cheerfully, as if he were delivering a sweater I’d ordered online.
I signed, closed the door, and opened the envelope.
Inside were divorce papers.For illustrative purposes only
My husband, Grant Ellis, had filed three days earlier. At the top of the first page was a short handwritten note in his familiar slanted handwriting:
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