At the end of the arbitration, I was able to keep the house and most of the items I wanted to keep. I have to pay him some money out of my retirement account. I’ve also agreed to turn over about half the home furnishings to him; most of what I am keeping are things that I either inherited or acquired during my first marriage. I’m happy enough with the agreement.

Maybe happy isn’t the right word. Satisfied, perhaps. Relieved.

The next day, my father and I abandon our plans to continue fixing things around the house, and hop in my car – my car – and drive down to Southcenter, where I spend an hour looking at sofas, choose one, and buy it. My sofa.  Then I spend an hour trying out mattresses, find one I like at a laughably good price, and buy that, too. My bed.

The bed and sofa they are replacing each took over a year to select; they only thing they say in terms of style is “compromise.”

We go back to my house, and I leaf through a catalog and find a coffee table, which I order a few days later.

The compromise table my table will replace took two years to select.

Last summer, in a fit of fury and desperation, I had packed up a lot of belongings with the idea that I would move them to a new home; that plan lost steam when The Departed refused to reply to our inquiries about whether he wanted the house and The Lawyer persuaded me that it was unwise to potentially be on the hook for both mortgage and rent in the event The Departed continued his uncooperative stance. In retrospect, it was sensible advice, but at the time I found it incredibly frustrating. The net result of that episode was that I’ve been living with piles of boxes since then.

So, the evening after arbitration, I decide to unbox some things. I hadn’t actually marked any of the boxes, so their contents are a bit of a mystery.

The box in the family room contains DVD’s and Wii games. The Child and I go through them all, one by one.

Look! I say. We got custody of Harry Potter!

I found The Holy Grail! squeals The Child.

We kept Wallace and Grommit in the divorce!

And the Raving Rabbids! Huzzah! she trills. Is the Wii in one of these boxes? We should visit the Rabbids!

You should walk around the house every so often and touch things and say mine, says my father.

I plan to, I tell him. But first, I’m going to make soup for dinner.

In my kitchen.

The Arbitrator returns; we’re almost done but still not quite. It’s okay, he says, we can go a bit longer. He hands back the list of items, and there’s an indignant scrawl next to the master bed, adding it back to his list of items. I almost chuckle but I’m tired now; I’ve been making regular trips to the ladies’ room and need to make another one but don’t want to hold up the proceedings any further.

The lawyer and I huddle and come up with some numbers. The Arbitrator drafts up yet another counter, but this time it’s in final form: lots of legal language accompanies this offer. If we can get him to agree to this, we both sign it and we’re, for all intents and purposes, done. They want me to sign this first, before The Departed, so I read it and make sure it’s correct.

I read the standard language too.

When I get to section 4, paragraph 2, I stop, because air is knocked out of me and I feel an agonizing pain pierce my abdomen like a rusty bayonet. “The Wife acknowledges that she is not pregnant.”

Everyone is chattering around me, not rudely, but not seeing me either. Or maybe they do; I don’t know. I stop and read it again, and then recompose myself and finish reading.

It’s just standard legal language, it’s nothing personal; nothing we’ve talked about here today is anything personal.

The Arbitrator goes off into the other room, and I look at the paralegal and say, That was the hardest part of the whole year. The Wife acknowledges she is not pregnant.

The paralegal winces and says, I’m so sorry. I can see she is struggling for the right thing to say, but there isn’t anything, so I help her out.

It’s just standard, I know that, I tell her.

The Arbitrator returns with a signed paper: We are done except for filing the documents with the court.

Also, we have to leave, because our time has run over and the room is needed for other things. Other people’s problems.

I didn’t expect to feel happy. I thought I would feel relieved, but that’s not how I feel either. I feel overwhelmed by loss, and not the loss I expected to feel: I feel like I am going to miss The Lawyer and The Paralegal immensely, more than I can bear. I’m confused by this, and they’re both standing near me; he’s standing back a bit, away from me, but she reaches out and hugs me.

Thank you, I will miss you, I say to both of them. Thank you.

The paralegal says, you won’t miss us, we’ll see you.

Oh, I think, and before I can figure out what she’s saying we’re out the door and I’m headed for the bathroom again, finally.

Just as the door closes behind me, I hear The Lawyer ask my father, Is she okay?

Yes, says my father. She will be.