With the final papers signed, there are just a few things that I have to take care of. I write out a check for $10,000, to The Departed and his lawyer. I expect she will take most of it and wonder exactly what sort of post-traumatic stress therapy she will spend it on. I’m hoping for shoes and some time at the spa.

It’s my money, or was anyway, and I want it to be spent well.

The next item on the list is stuff. His important stuff,  which is heaped up in my garage. I could not get it out of my house fast enough, even though it means I have been living with, in some cases, nearly empty rooms. I expect the camera crew from Hoarders to show up and start filming in my garage, and then become confused and disoriented upon entering the actual house.

I haven’t yet had a chance to call the movers when I receive another missive from his attorney, sent to my attorney, and then to me. The Departed proposes the following moving dates, please advise, it says.

If we have to negotiate moving dates and movers through the lawyers you might as well buy new stuff, I think. It would be cheaper.

Well, I guess if he wants to pay legal bills for this, that’s his prerogative. It’s not mine, though, so I tell the Paralegal: I’ll deal with this.

I call the movers and schedule a date, and prepay my share of the cost. I compose a lengthy, detailed email to The Departed, pointing out I’ve probably generously paid for the whole move. I leave out the part about the coupon I had for this mover, but every other detail – everything I can think of – I include.

I email him and attempt to copy his lawyer on it, just to make sure all the bases are covered. She’ll need to read it, of course – all of it – and though that might take some billable time, at least she will know her letter has been responded to.

I goof and put her name in the subject line instead of the cc: line, and click send.

I kick myself.

He replies to me, saying he’ll follow up with the movers for his part of the arrangements. He is oddly polite, nearly contrite.

And he courteously has moved his lawyer’s email address into the cc: field on his reply, so she is sure to read it when she has some billable time to spend on the matter.

I go to The Lawyer’s office the day after the other side agrees to the final terms, and sign the papers. My lawyer’s office only has two people – him and the paralegal – and they’re both visibly upset when I get there.

Not about me, though. Another case has gone very wrong. The Lawyer is very upset for what is about to happen to this other client, a very nice lady, he tells me.

I sign the papers and inquire when I have to deliver this check. I assume they will send the check over with my signed papers; I’d looked into taking out a loan and the check will take about two weeks.

I’m amazed they didn’t keep fighting, I say, but I think he must have run out of money for legal fees. It’s the only thing that makes sense: he’s never tired of fighting, but the lawyers will only fight for you when paid to do so.

Oh, says The Lawyer. I know that check annoys you. Would you like it to annoy him more?

Is that possible, I ask.

Make the check out to his name and the lawyer’s name, he tells me.

I chuckle, and suddenly, look forward to writing this check.

I go home to wait for the loan to come through, which it does, and it is sitting on my desk when, a week later, I receive an email from the paralegal: You are divorced.

Apparently I have been divorced for a week.

And so it was that thirteen months after he walked out the door, the divorce ended, as abruptly and unexpectedly as the marriage did.

A few days after the letter from The Departed’s lawyer, the paralegal emails me.

The Lawyer is swamped, she says, but I told him about the letter and his reply was, Not a chance. That was not the agreement.

Don’t worry, she tells me.

We trade a few emails about how to respond. The only item the lawyer wants to talk about, though, is when I am going to pay the money I owe The Departed for his share of the house. It’s not a small sum – $10,000. The Lawyer pushes me to  pay it immediately, I do not want a judgment entered against me for credit reasons. This pisses me off and I say so – The Foreigner owes me all kinds of money and I have a judgment and it’s worth spit, I tell him.

That’s because he lives in Bora Bora, says the lawyer.

I don’t bother correcting his geography.

I’m annoyed but he’s adamant on the other points: We will not move, and if The Departed wants to go back to the arbitrator, we will demand – and he thinks we will win – the Departed having to bear all the costs I must incur.

In the end, I am taking out a loan to pay this all anyway, and after a few more expensive minutes on the phone with him I realize, it doesn’t matter when I take it. I am stuck.

Get this over with, I tell him.  I will deliver a check upon entry of the decree.

I think it’s wise, says The Lawyer. I start to get off the phone, but he asks after my father. How is he?

Fine, I say.

Interesting guy, says the lawyer. I enjoyed hearing about his time in Israel.

That was a long time ago, I say. That’s when he met my mother.

It was very interesting, he says. We chat a bit about the upcoming election, and I say Thank You.

Thank you, he says, emphatically. Reminding me I’m the client.

The letter he sends to the other side is emphatic, too – so much so that I’m startled. Wind this up, it says between the lines: This has gone on for far too long.

A week later, we receive their reply: Please send the signed papers to our office so we can sign them and enter the orders with the court.

Sorry, what?, I say. That’s it?

I hurry to their office to sign before anyone changes their mind.