It's very complicated though. Without closure from him - the one calling the shots regarding the dissolution of our marriage - closure must come without knowing what he was thinking. All I have to work with is what I am thinking, and there have been thousands of thoughts, emotions, and memories to sort through.
Ah, here, this scrap of anguish over not being kind enough, and this bite of rejection from being much too demanding, this slimy tidbit of hope that we would eventually understand each other - all of it must be pried form a heart that is scorched and scarred. Blackened bits of memories of when we worked; glowing embers of self-hate still being fueled by breath that whispers "you let him take so much, how could you ignore the glaring signs that he would ultimately hurt you beyond imagination?"
Everyday is a step away from the flames and being passive and being so used to being unheard that I had long stopped saying anything mattered.
Someday, in the bathroom mirror of the home I own by myself, my reflection will square her shoulders and stand up straight and say the words "I respect you for giving your marriage every opportunity to survive. You left no stone unturned, you forgave, forgot, moved on, and remained faithful and loyal. You will never have to wonder 'what if I had only tried more?'".
Filing the paper will be like stepping off the curb to cross the street. I've been walking from the wreckage of "our" life, stepping through the threshold of our family home, closing the door, crossing the lawn ... in the early days gaining very little distance per day and looking back over and over, but lately picking up speed. Each sidewalk square holds a memory or old wish that must be traveled through. "Goodbye" things I thought we enjoyed doing together, "goodbye" extended family, "goodbye" private jokes. Each of our future plans must be sifted through to see which ones are still hopes for my future. Saying goodbye to a genetic sibling of Toren has not been easy. I don't have Toren here and I won't even get someone that looks like him. There will be no individually loved model to even give me a glimpse of what he would have looked like as he aged; no soft, blond, curly hair to stroke and smell to fill, even if only for a minute, some part of the hole that misses him so much.
Across the street my car is packed and the engine is running. The deadbaby mama mobile is sleek and fast and has no room for unwanted passengers. It's within sight, just there across the street, my car is packed with only what I want to keep, waiting for a driver with a new license stating her new name, waiting for someone to steer.