After the Divorce Paper

The sound of a pen scratching against paper was supposed to be ordinary. Contracts, blueprints, case files, Akpabot and Sophia both lived by signatures. Yet the signature that ended their marriage had not sounded ordinary at all. It had sounded final, sharp, like the tearing of fabric that would never be sewn whole again. Akpabot Divine remembered that day as if it were carved into stone. The small courtroom in Lower Manhattan smelled of dust and stale coffee. Their lawyers sat like referees, disinterested and brisk, while the judge read through the final decree. Sophia didn’t cry. Neither did he. They sat across from each other, professional, composed, as if the death of their marriage was just another transaction. But his hands had trembled when the pen touched the paper. Sophia’s, he noticed, did not. The cracks had begun long before that courtroom. Akpabot had always thought love would be enough. Love had carried them through stolen kisses under Harlem streetlamps, through nights tangled together in their Brooklyn brownstone, through the noise of culture and the cautious curiosity of their families. He was Christian, she was Muslim, but their love had seemed stronger than scripture, larger than expectation. Until it wasn’t. It began with his long nights. Architecture was his altar, and ambition demanded sacrifice. He told himself he was building a future for them, for the children they hadn’t yet had, for the comfort he wanted to give her. He promised Sophia he’d slow down once the next project ended. But projects never ended in Manhattan. There was always another tower reaching for the clouds, another client who needed more of him than she did. She would wait up at first, books spread across their bed as she reviewed contracts. When he finally came home, she’d smile faintly, offer him warm food reheated a third time, and tuck her questions into silence. But silence became its own language. Sophia would later tell Danielle that she hadn’t divorced him because she stopped loving him. No, love had burned even in the end. She divorced him because she was disappearing. In their second year of marriage, she had felt the weight of his world pressing against hers. At family dinners, his Baptist relatives asked polite but pointed questions about her faith, her hijab, her prayers. At community gatherings, she felt like the odd one out, respected but never fully seen. Akpabot never mocked her beliefs, but he never defended them either. When a cousin joked about “converting her soon enough,” Akpabot laughed and changed the subject. That laugh cut deeper than any argument. She wondered then if she would always stand alone in her faith. They argued, of course. At first, softly. Then louder. “I need you to come home,” she had said one night, frustration slipping through her calm. “I can’t keep eating dinner alone, Akpabot. We don’t even pray together anymore.” His reply was weary, defensive. “I’m building something, Sophia. You know this. You of all people should understand ambition.” “Ambition doesn’t kiss me goodnight.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “Ambition doesn’t ask me how my day was. You do, or you used to.” He had closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at him. “You think I don’t love you?” “I think you don’t see me anymore.” That was the beginning of the unraveling. Faith became the second battlefield. Sophia’s faith was her compass, steady and unshakable. She rose before dawn to pray, wrapped her hijab with intention, guarded her boundaries even in love. Akpabot respected her, yes, but he didn’t always understand her. He grew up in a Baptist church that clapped and sang with abandon; she prayed in a mosque where silence was reverence. Their spiritual languages were different, and over time, difference turned to distance. The question that haunted them, though neither dared to voice it—was simple: Whose faith will shape our future children? Akpabot assumed they would find compromise. Sophia feared compromise meant surrender. One night, after a particularly tense family gathering, Sophia whispered the question out loud: “What if your church wants our children baptized, Akpabot? What if my mosque wants them raised Muslim? Will you stand with me, or will you expect me to bend?” His answer had been too slow. “We’ll figure it out.” She heard what he didn’t say: You’ll bend. By their third year, love lived in their house like a ghost—present, lingering, but unreachable. She would leave sticky notes on the fridge: Dinner in the oven. He would text her at midnight: Don’t wait up. They spoke more through paper and screens than through touch and conversation. When they did talk, it often ended in silence, not resolution. And yet, in between, there were still flashes of what once was. He would bring her halal takeout from Queens after late nights at work, remembering her favorites. She would press his suits for important meetings, slipping love notes into his jacket pocket. They tried, in small ways. But small wasn’t enough against the mountain of silence. The breaking point came on a rainy Friday. Sophia had prepared dinner, her mother’s egusi stew recipe, rich with spice and care. She waited, candles lit, table set. Hours passed. Midnight came, then one a.m. Finally, she ate alone, the stew gone cold. When Akpabot stumbled in at two, exhausted from a site meeting, he didn’t notice the candles or the untouched plates. He dropped his bag, loosened his tie, and muttered, “Long day.” She stood at the doorway, something inside her snapping. “Every day is a long day. But when do we get a day, Akpabot? When do I get you?” He froze, eyes narrowing. “This again?” “Yes, this again! Because nothing changes!” Her voice rose, sharp. “I don’t want skyscrapers, Akpabot. I want a husband. I want a partner who sees me, who stands with me, who doesn’t make me feel like my faith is something inconvenient!” His defense came fast, jagged. “And I want a wife who understands what it takes to build a future! Do you think any of this, our home, our life, just falls from the sky? I’m breaking my back for us, Sophia!” “For us?” Her laugh was bitter, trembling. “No. For you. For your pride. And I’m not going to lose myself to feed your ambition.” The silence that followed was heavier than shouting. That night, Sophia slept on the couch. A month later, she called her lawyer. Back in the courtroom, the judge’s voice had sounded distant, drowned out by the echo of their failure. Sophia signed the paper first, steady hand, eyes dry. Akpabot signed next, his fingers trembling. When the documents were collected, it was over. Except it wasn’t. Because as Sophia walked past him, her perfume brushing the air between them, Akpabot caught the faint shimmer of tears in her eyes. And that single glimmer haunted him more than the divorce decree itself. She hadn’t stopped loving him. And neither had he. But love, they both believed that day, was no longer enough.