I made no objection when the judge had Najati sign the document before I did, and as I exited the courtroom, I didn’t look back. All I wanted was to get out of the building and leave it behind. I’d gone by the Palace of Justice countless times as a girl when my father would take me to visit my aunt in the Halabouni neighborhood behind the Hejaz Station. But now it was associated with a different kind of memory, the kind I didn’t care to hold onto.
At the door Najati said to me affectionately, “Congratulations on your divorce. You fought for it with everything you had. Would you like me to take you home?”
“No, thanks,” I replied. “I’d like to walk. But thanks again.”
I came up to him and was about to plant a kiss on his forehead the way I’d always done when I was a little girl. But he pu
