One Night, Two Dads

The air in the courtroom felt thick with tension, suffocating in its weight. I sat at the wooden table, gripping its edge like it might anchor me to something solid. My fingers dug into the wood, my nails leaving faint marks. Beside me, Ethan sat like a statue, stone-faced and distant. Once, his presence had been my comfort, but now it felt almost foreign, a weight I couldn't bear. Our marriage was crumbling before my eyes, splintered by his betrayal.

The judge's voice cut through the silence like a blade, her words final and unyielding. "The divorce is hereby finalized. Both parties are free to go their separate ways."

Separate ways. The words echoed in my mind as a cold fog of finality settled over me. I should have felt relieved, freed from the agony of a broken marriage, but all I could feel was the gnawing ache in my chest. Betrayed. Broken. For years, I had given Ethan everything-my heart, my trust, my soul. And he had destroyed it all with his infidelity.

The room buzzed with the shuffle of papers, the scratch of pens, and the sound of people standing to leave. I remained seated, unable to move, numb to it all. I couldn't even look at him. I couldn't bear it. Once, he'd been my entire world. Now, he was nothing more than a memory I desperately wanted to erase.

Blinking back tears, I finally forced myself to stand. With one last, lingering glance at the man who had promised to love me forever, I turned and walked out of the courtroom. My heels clicked loudly against the marble floor, echoing through the vast, empty hall. Each step felt heavier than the last, like I was leaving a piece of myself behind. My life, as I had known it, was over.

When I reached the courthouse steps, I finally allowed myself to breathe. The crisp air hit my lungs, but the relief was fleeting. What now? How was I supposed to rebuild after everything I'd lost? I didn't have answers, but I knew one thing: I needed to feel something-anything-to drown out the suffocating emptiness.

Hours later, I found myself at a bar, the kind of place I rarely frequented. The neon lights buzzed above me, casting an ethereal glow over the crowded room. I didn't care that I didn't belong here. I just wanted to disappear, to lose myself in the noise, the anonymity, the chaos of it all.

I slid onto a stool at the bar, ordering a glass of wine with shaky hands. My reflection in the mirror behind the bar caught my attention, and I almost didn't recognize the woman staring back. My red-rimmed eyes, disheveled hair, and smudged makeup told a story I didn't want to face.

When the bartender placed the wine in front of me, I took a long sip, the sharp taste burning my throat. It didn't help. It didn't dull the ache. But it was a distraction.

That's when I noticed him.

He sat a few stools down, his broad shoulders relaxed, his presence magnetic without being overbearing. Dark hair, a chiseled jaw, and piercing eyes that seemed to see everything-even though he wasn't looking my way. For reasons I couldn't explain, I couldn't look away.

Our eyes met briefly in the mirror, and I quickly averted my gaze, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. But when I stole another glance, he was still looking. And then he smiled-a subtle, almost imperceptible curve of his lips, but enough to make my heart skip.

"Long night?" His voice broke through the noise, deep and smooth, with a hint of amusement.

I turned to face him fully, forcing a small, polite smile. "You could say that."

"Divorce?" he asked, his tone gentle but probing.

My smile faltered, and I stared down at my wine glass. How could he possibly know? "What gave it away?"

"Call it a gift," he said with a shrug, his expression unreadable. "But it's written all over you."

The fact he didn't say " your file on the table gave it away" was funny.

I don't mind rolling with his own make out excuse.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. "You're not the first person to tell me that," I murmured.

His gaze softened, and he leaned in slightly. "For what it's worth, you're not alone."

For reasons I couldn't explain, his words struck a chord. There was no pity in his voice, no judgment. Just... understanding. It was comforting in a way I hadn't expected.

I can't remember the last time I had a very deep conversation with someone and felt relaxed.

I don't mind doing it often.

We talked for hours after that. At some point, the conversation shifted from casual small talk to something deeper. I didn't even realize when it happened, but it didn't matter. For the first time in weeks, I felt alive.

His name was Daniel, and there was a calm, steady presence about him that put me at ease. One drink turned into another, and before I knew it, he was guiding me out of the bar, his arm steadying me as I stumbled slightly.

We ended up at his apartment-a quiet, minimalistic space that mirrored the stillness I'd been craving. For a few fleeting hours, the weight of the world lifted. Nothing mattered-not the divorce, not Ethan, not the loneliness that had consumed me.

When morning came, reality returned with a vengeance. As sunlight streamed through the blinds, guilt gnawed at me. I glanced at Daniel, still asleep beside me, his features softened in slumber. He looked peaceful, but I felt anything but.

Quietly, I slipped out of bed and dressed. This wasn't me. This couldn't be me. This was just a mistake, a momentary escape. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't.

I left his apartment without looking back, stepping into the bustling city as it woke around me. The world moved on, indifferent to the chaos inside me. As I walked down the street, I vowed to bury this moment, to lock it away with all the other regrets.

This was just one night. It wouldn't define me. It couldn't.