After the Divorce Paper

Chapter3

The drafting table was Akpabot’s altar. Every night, long after Harlem’s streets quieted and the last of the traffic faded, he bent over his sketches, pencil scratching against paper, ruler steady as a surgeon’s blade. Towers, museums, bridges, they rose in graphite before they existed in steel. Architecture was order, lines that obeyed when nothing else in life did.

And yet, even as he mapped perfect arcs and flawless structures, the silence pressed in.

The brownstone he had bought after the divorce was beautiful in its emptiness—high ceilings, polished floors, exposed brick. A monument to independence. But no matter how many leather chairs he bought, how many modern lamps he arranged, the house always echoed. It was built for a family, and he was one man.

By day, his firm thrived. Akpabot walked into meetings like he owned the city. Clients admired his sharp suits, his sharper mind, and the confidence with which he pitched impossible visions.

“This isn’t just a building,” he said to investors one Tuesday morning, pointing at a sleek design projected on the wall. “It’s a statement. Harlem deserves more than concrete. It deserves art, permanence, pride.”

The investors nodded, impressed. Contracts were signed. Applause followed. His name was spoken with respect in circles that once ignored him.

But when the applause faded and the elevator doors closed, Akpabot exhaled into the emptiness. Praise couldn’t fill the hollowness that followed him home.

Colleagues envied his work ethic. They saw brilliance; they didn’t see the late nights where he drowned in whiskey instead of sleep. They saw awards on his office shelf, not the unopened divorce papers he still hadn’t had the courage to throw away.

Sometimes, when exhaustion blurred his eyes, he reached across the drafting table instinctively, expecting a voice, a hand, a presence that wasn’t there. Sophia’s laughter used to fill these nights. Now, only the scratching of his pencil remained.

On weekends, he jogged through Central Park, earbuds pumping jazz into his ears. Runners passed, couples strolled, children fed ducks by the pond. He kept his pace steady, chest rising and falling, as if he could outrun memory.

But memories had a way of catching up. He’d see a woman in a scarf, graceful stride, and his chest would tighten before his mind scolded him: Not her. Stop looking for her everywhere.

His mother called often, her voice warm with worry.

“My son, you work too much. When will you rest?”

Akpabot smiled into the phone. “Rest is for later, Mama. I have deadlines.”

“You had love once,” she reminded gently. “But you chose your pride.”

He bristled. “I didn’t choose pride. I chose vision. She couldn’t understand that.”

But when he hung up, her words replayed like a refrain.

Nights were the hardest. He would return from long hours at the firm, loosen his tie, pour himself a glass of dark liquor, and sit in the quiet. The city buzzed outside, but inside, the silence mocked him.

He told himself he was free. Free to chase greatness, free to leave behind compromises. Yet, freedom often felt like exile.

Sometimes he flipped through old photographs, tucked in a drawer he pretended not to open. Sophia at their wedding, eyes lit with faith and love. Sophia on their trip to Chicago, laughing against the wind. Sophia on their couch, head tilted back in laughter at some private joke.

He shut the drawer quickly every time, but the ghosts lingered.

His friends noticed the change. At a rooftop bar one Friday, Marcus, his oldest college friend, clapped him on the shoulder.

“Man, you’ve got the world at your feet. The firm’s killing it. You’re in every architecture magazine. But you.....” Marcus studied him, eyes narrowing. “You don’t look happy.”

Akpabot forced a smile. “Happiness is overrated. Legacy lasts.”

Marcus shook his head. “Legacy’s cold comfort when no one’s around to share it.”

The words stung, but Akpabot hid it beneath another sip of whiskey.

Faith was complicated now. Once, he had prayed with Sophia, listened to her speak about the strength it gave her. Back then, he had respected it, even loved her for it. But he had also resented it, the way she chose it over him, the way it demanded sacrifices he wasn’t willing to make.

Still, in the darkest nights, when the city outside hushed and the whiskey glass stood empty, Akpabot found himself whispering into the silence. Not prayers exactly, but confessions.

God… if I messed this up… if I ruined the one thing that mattered…” His voice cracked before fading. He never finished the thought.

To the world, he was thriving. His firm was hired for a new cultural center in Brooklyn, his name appearing in glossy magazines, his designs praised as visionary. He shook hands with mayors, toasted with CEOs, and gave speeches about resilience and creativity.

But every triumph felt like a hollow crown.

Because when he stood at the window of his brownstone, overlooking Harlem’s restless lights, he thought not of buildings, not of legacy, but of her.

Of Sophia.

Sometimes, he caught himself designing houses that weren’t for clients, but for a family he didn’t have. Spacious kitchens with sunlit windows. Bedrooms built for laughter. Gardens meant for children’s footsteps. He would tear those sketches quickly, ashamed of the softness that betrayed him.

But the sketches told the truth he could not say aloud. He had built towers for strangers, but the one home he wanted had slipped through his hands.

In the end, Akpabot’s life was a paradox. To the city, he was a rising star. To himself, he was a man haunted by unfinished conversations, by the sound of her name in his chest.

He told himself he had no regrets. But regrets filled the spaces ambition could not.

And though he didn’t know it yet, fate was already moving its pieces. Soon, his path and Sophia’s would cross again, not in memory, but in flesh and blood.

And this time, the silence would not be enough to protect him.