After the Divorce Paper

Chapter2

The first light of dawn crept through Sophia’s bedroom window, brushing against the framed verses of the Qur’an that hung above her bed. She woke as she always did, slowly, carefully, with the discipline of ritual. The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator. She folded her blanket neatly, laid out her prayer mat, and whispered the Fajr prayer, her voice low but steady.

It was in these moments, before the rush of Manhattan claimed her, that she felt most herself. The world outside demanded contracts, arguments, and steel-edged confidence. But here, in the hush of morning, Sophia felt grounded, tethered to something bigger than ambition, bigger than regret.

When she tied her emerald scarf that morning, she paused in the mirror. The woman staring back at her was polished, capable, unyielding. A Manhattan attorney, thirty-two, rising fast. Colleagues envied her precision; clients admired her brilliance. Yet she saw what the mirror could not reflect. the faint ache that pulsed beneath her ribs.

It had been a year since the divorce, but there were still nights she woke reaching for a body that wasn’t there.

The law firm where she worked thrummed like a machine. Associates shuffled files like cogs, paralegals whispered in frantic bursts, and senior partners carried themselves like emperors. Sophia fit the rhythm easily. Her heels clicked across the marble floor with quiet authority. Her suits were sharp, her arguments sharper. In the boardroom, she was a force.

This morning was no exception. She sat across from a client, flipping through a thick corporate contract, while three men twice her age tried not to underestimate her.

“Clause 14.2 is unenforceable under state law,” she said evenly, tapping the document with her pen. “If you sign this as is, you’ll bleed liability.”

The oldest of the three cleared his throat. “And your recommendation, Ms. Olaoye?”

Sophia didn’t blink. “Strike it. And while you’re at it, add a warranty clause. Trust me—you’ll thank me in five years.”

The room fell silent before the men nodded, scribbling notes. Sophia leaned back, composed. Another battle won. Another contract secured.

But as the meeting ended and the clients left, the quiet crept in. Victories in law felt different than victories in life. No one clapped for you when you went home alone.

Danielle Rivera broke the silence later that evening, as she so often did. She leaned against Sophia’s office doorframe, a grin tugging her lips, heels dangling from her hand.

“Another dragon slayed?” Danielle teased.

Sophia smiled faintly. “Another contract secured.”

“And another night at the office,” Danielle added, arching a brow. “Soph, you know the janitors are starting to think you live here.”

Sophia laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Someone has to keep this firm running.”

“Correction,” Danielle said, sliding into the chair opposite her, “someone has to keep you running. When was the last time you had dinner that wasn’t takeout?”

Sophia tried to brush her off, but Danielle’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not to him. Not to them. You’re enough.”

The words lingered, heavier than intended. Sophia closed her laptop slowly. “I know.”

But knowing and believing were different things.

On weekends, Sophia often traded skyscrapers for Queens. Her parents’ modest home smelled of cardamom and fried plantain the moment she stepped through the door.

Her mother, wrapped in a colorful Ankara scarf, fussed over her like no time had passed. “Sophia, you’ve lost weight. Are you eating well?”

Sophia smiled. “I’m fine, Mama.”

“You’re always fine,” her mother scolded gently, pulling her into a hug that smelled of spices and home.

Her father, quieter but no less observant, studied her over his glasses at the dinner table. “You carry success well,” he said. “But it carries you too, hm?”

Sophia lowered her gaze, spooning rice onto her plate. “Work keeps me busy.”

“And busy keeps you from being lonely,” he added softly.

Her fork stilled. She hated how easily he saw through her.

Later that night, while washing dishes, her mother touched her arm. “You were right to leave,” she whispered. “You chose your faith, your dignity. Never doubt that.”

Sophia nodded, but the words did not erase the memory of Akpabot’s laughter, or the way his absence still echoed in her life.

At her apartment, evenings stretched long. She cooked meals for one, packed leftovers into neat containers, and scrolled through her phone with half-interest. Friends posted engagements, babies, vacations. Sophia double-tapped their happiness, then set the phone aside.

Sometimes, she sat by the window with tea, watching the city lights flicker like restless stars. She wondered if Akpabot was awake too, hunched over blueprints somewhere, chasing perfection as he always did. She told herself she didn’t care.

But in the stillness of night, she did.

Her faith kept her anchored. She attended mosque regularly, her scarf tied with quiet pride. The imam’s sermons reminded her of patience, of endurance, of mercy. She found solace in prayer, but she also found questions she couldn’t answer. Could love exist without compromise? Could faith and ambition truly coexist?

During one sermon, the imam spoke of forgiveness, not as surrender, but as strength. Sophia listened carefully, her heart tightening. Forgiveness was easy in theory, harder when the wound carried a name.

That night, she knelt on her prayer mat longer than usual. Her whispered words tangled between gratitude and longing.

Despite the loneliness, Sophia built a life she could own. She walked into boardrooms with her head high. She laughed with Danielle over wine poured into mismatched mugs. She cherished her parents’ warmth.

And yet, beneath it all, there was a rhythm she couldn’t escape—the rhythm of a love that hadn’t truly ended, only paused.

In the quiet, she sometimes imagined another version of her life. One where Akpabot had chosen differently. One where faith and ambition had not torn them apart. One where she wasn’t strong because she had to be, but because she wanted to be.

But imagination was not reality. Reality was contracts, deadlines, and nights spent alone.

So she folded her scarf neatly, pressed her suits for the morning, and carried on.

Divorce had ended her marriage.

But it had not ended the story that still lived in her chest, heavy and unspoken.

And though she didn’t know it yet, the city she loved would soon force her to face that story again.