RING OF POWER

Sign The Divorce Papers

“You’re late again.”

Alphonsus stepped through the apartment door, still wearing his work uniform, a polo shirt with a coffee stain on the collar that he’d tried to wipe away during his lunch break. He’d stopped apologizing for being late months ago. It never changed anything.

His wife, Vivian, was sitting at the kitchen table with her arms crossed. She was still wearing her office clothes from the marketing firm downtown.

Expensive blouses, tailored pants, the kind of outfit that cost more than what he made in a week. Her hair was pulled back tight, the way she wore it when she was angry.

“My shift ran over,” he said, setting his work bag by the door. “The coffee shop was packed, and...”

“I don’t care about your damn shift. Do as I say.”

He moved toward the kitchen, thinking about the leftovers he’d seen in the refrigerator that morning. Chicken and rice. Cold, but it would be better than nothing.

“Alphonsus, sit down.”

Something in her voice stopped him. He turned to look at her properly. The kitchen light caught her face, and he could see the exhaustion there, not the tired expression of someone who’d had a long day at work, but something deeper. Something final.

He sat across from her at the table.

“I’ve been trying,” Vivian said quietly. “I’ve been trying for years. But I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” He knew what she meant, but part of him wanted her to say it, to spell it out so there was no room for misunderstanding.

“This.” She gestured around the small apartment: the secondhand furniture, the water-stained ceiling in the corner that they’d been meaning to have fixed, the stack of medical bills on the counter next to the fruit bowl. “Us.

This life. Alphonsus, I’m thirty-two years old, and I’m living like we’re in our twenties trying to figure things out. Except we’re not figuring anything out. We’re just stuck.”

He didn’t respond. He was watching her hands. Her left hand rested on the table, and he could see the indentation on her ring finger where her wedding ring should have been. She’d taken it off.

“I wanted a family,” she continued. “A real home. I wanted to travel. I wanted security.

I wanted my husband to have ambitions, Alphonsus. I wanted to feel like we were building something together instead of just drowning.”

“I’m supporting my mother,” he said. “She’s sick. She needs treatment, and my sister also needs my support.”

“I don’t care what your family needs.” Vivian’s voice didn’t rise, which somehow made it worse. “Do you know what I need? I need to feel like my husband has a future. I need to feel like this is temporary. But it’s not temporary, is it? This is just life for us now.”

He looked at her and said nothing. There was no answer he could give that would satisfy her because she was right. His mother’s medical bills would never get smaller.

His sister’s tuition wouldn’t disappear. And no matter how many jobs he took, no matter how many hours he worked, he would never make enough to give Vivian the life she wanted.

Vivian stood up and walked to the bedroom. When she came back, she was holding a manila envelope. She placed it on the table in front of him and slid it toward his chest.

“What’s this?” He already knew.

“Divorce papers. I had them drawn up last month. I’ve already signed them.”

Alphonsus stared at the envelope. The word DIVORCE was printed on the front in stark black letters. How long had she been planning this? A month? Longer?

“I’m moving out on Saturday,” she said. “I’ve already found a place closer to the office. Smaller, but at least it’s mine. My mother offered to help with the deposit.”

Of course her mother did. Vivian’s mother had made it clear from their first family dinner that she didn’t think Alphonsus was good enough for her daughter.

She’d spent the entire meal asking pointed questions about his career trajectory and his long-term financial planning. Alphonsus had sat there quietly, eating the expensive food he hadn’t paid for, while Vivian’s father barely acknowledged his existence.

“Don’t make this harder than it is,” Vivian said. She was standing now, her arms crossed again. “Just sign them.

We’ll sell the furniture, divide the money from my savings account, and move on with our lives. You can focus on your mother, and I can finally figure out what my life looks like without this.”

She didn’t say it, but they both heard it anyway. Without you.

Alphonsus opened the envelope slowly. The first page was dense with legal language, terms he didn’t understand, numbers and percentages. He flipped through without reading, seeing his name printed over and over again.

Alphonsus Mark Jameson. Full name. Middle name. The formal version of himself, reduced to a party in a legal proceeding.

The last page had a signature line for him. Vivian’s signature was already there, neat and decisive. She hadn’t hesitated.

He closed the envelope and looked at his wife, his soon-to-be ex-wife. She was looking out the kitchen window, toward the fire escape and the city beyond. She wasn’t looking at him. She hadn’t looked at him while she was talking.

Maybe she was already gone. Maybe she’d left a long time ago, and this was just the official paperwork.

“I need the papers signed by Friday,” Vivian said. She was still facing the window. “I’m giving you my lawyer’s contact information.

You can hire your own lawyer if you want to negotiate anything, but there’s nothing much to negotiate. The apartment stays in my name. You keep the car. We’ll split the joint account fifty-fifty.”

Fifty-fifty. Their entire marriage, divided in half.

“Vivian...”

She finally turned to look at him, and he saw it in her eyes. No anger. No sadness. Just resignation. The look of someone who’d made a decision and was already at peace with it.

“I know you tried,” she said quietly. “That’s not the point. The point is that trying isn’t enough. Not for me. Not anymore.”

She walked past him, grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, and headed for the door. He heard her keys jingle. He heard the door open.

“Where are you going?” His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

Vivian paused in the doorway but didn’t turn around.

“I’m staying at my mother’s tonight. I’ll come back Saturday to pack the rest of my things. Just sign the papers, okay? Make this easy on both of us.”

The door closed behind her. Her footsteps faded down the hallway.

Alphonsus sat alone at the kitchen table with the manila envelope in front of him. Outside, the city hummed with the sound of traffic, sirens, people moving through their lives, going somewhere, doing something. Inside the apartment, there was nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the quiet tick of the kitchen clock.

He opened the envelope again and pulled out the divorce papers. His signature line was blank, waiting. A pen sat on the table where Vivian must have placed it before he’d arrived home. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from his mother:

“Did you pick up my prescription? I ran out this morning.”

Alphonsus stared at the divorce papers in front of him, then at his phone screen.

He thought about his mother waiting at home for her medication. He thought about his sister’s tuition bill, due in two weeks.

He thought about the rent, due in ten days. He thought about being thirty-four years old and entirely, completely alone.

And then he reached for the pen.