I stared at the handwriting on the plain mailing envelope – my own name written in ink, my former home address at the top left.

That same handwriting, in years before, had expressed feelings and truths for me in pages after pages of love notes and reminiscences created for birthdays or holidays or anniversaries. Just for me.

Attached to that handwriting, which I’d examined with a smile countless times before- are feelings of love, thankfulness, and joy.

Inside the envelope – a stack of divorce papers, clinical and devoid of human empathy; strict guidelines for the dissolution of a formerly happy union worn down by lies and lust and selfishness. Her signature, written in the same flowery script, signing off on my existence.

Next to hers, on a little perfectly straight line, is a space for another signature on each page of weighty finality. Just for me.