Part 1: The Last Signature

My husband checked his watch while I signed the divorce agreement. I was six months pregnant with triplets, and the pen felt heavier than it should have.

“Can we finish?” Adrian asked. “My flight leaves in two hours.”

My attorney, Priya, looked at him over the conference table. “We are finishing. Mara has a question about the medical payments.”

Adrian sat back. Rain blurred the windows behind him. I had once loved the way he made decisions quickly. Now his impatience made me feel as though the end of our marriage was an appointment he wanted removed from his calendar.

“The agreement says you'll reimburse the prenatal expenses listed here,” I said. “How will we exchange the receipts?”

“Send them to my assistant.”

Priya slid a page toward him. “The agreement specifies a shared account, not an assistant. Please read it.”

He read the paragraph, initialed it, and checked his watch again. I signed where Priya indicated. The agreement would still need the ordinary court process before it was final. A signature at a table was not a magic switch that settled every question about three children who had not yet arrived.

Outside, Adrian offered to call a car. I declined. I had a ride arranged and wanted a moment without an audience. He stood beneath the awning while his phone rang, then told me he had to go.

“You'll let me know about the next appointment?” he asked.

“I'll send the date through the account we agreed to use.”

He nodded and walked toward the waiting car. He did not look back. I watched until the door closed, then turned toward the corner where my friend Nia was parked.

In the passenger seat, I took a small notebook from my bag. On the first page I had written three possible names, each with a question mark. Nia glanced at it but did not ask which name belonged to which baby.

“You ate breakfast?” she asked instead.

“Half a sandwich.”

“Then we're stopping for the other half of lunch.”

Nia was a social worker, not my attorney or my doctor. She knew the difference. She could help me make a list of questions, find local resources, and sit beside me when I was too tired to speak. She could not decide what my pregnancy or my finances required.

At my apartment, I opened the shared account and uploaded the first receipt. A message appeared from Adrian before the upload finished.

Can we change the account? My assistant says this one is inconvenient.

I stared at the screen. We had spent forty minutes agreeing to that account because both of us could see the same documents and dates. Changing it immediately would mean starting the conversation again.

I typed, Please discuss any proposed change with Priya and your attorney. Then I put the phone down.

A second message arrived. It contained a photograph of an empty room in Adrian's new apartment. Underneath he had written, I bought three cribs. Is this enough?

I looked at the photograph, then at the names in my notebook. I had expected another argument. I had not expected him to ask a question I could not answer alone.