Six Months to Divorce

The contract Nora printed at the library had forty-two clauses, two signature lines, and one exit date circled in black ink: February 14.

Six months. Clean break. No alimony. No public statement required.

Ethan Park read it twice at Nora's kitchen table, where the linoleum was cracked and the window looked out on a parking lot that never got full.

"Clause twelve says we attend one family event per month as a couple," he said.

"My grandmother's nursing home does married-family discounts on room rates. One photo at bingo night satisfies clause twelve."

"Clause nineteen says no romantic involvement with third parties."

"Easy for both of us."

Ethan nodded. He was a surgical resident with a visa expiring and a renewal application that had been flagged for "insufficient ties." Nora was a paralegal who had raised her younger brother alone after their parents died and could not afford the private room her grandmother needed without a family rate she technically did not qualify for.

They were not a love story.

They were a spreadsheet with feelings filed under *not applicable*.

They shook hands.

They married at city hall on a Tuesday.

---

Month one was efficient.

Ethan kept hospital hours. Nora kept paralegal hours. They split groceries with an app and left post-it notes about trash days because speaking before coffee felt too intimate.

Month two introduced friction.

Ethan came home to find Nora asleep at the table over billing codes for her grandmother's care. He made tea without asking. She woke, startled, and said, "You didn't have to."

"You fell asleep on a hard chair," he said.

"Clause six says we don't owe each other care."

"Clause six is stupid."

Nora laughed once, surprised out of her, and went to bed feeling oddly lighter.

Month three they attended bingo night at Maple Ridge Care Center. Nora's grandmother, Helen, squeezed Ethan's hand and whispered, "You're too pretty to be real. Marry her for real when you're done pretending."

"Grandma," Nora hissed.

Ethan smiled the way he did with nervous patients. "We'll see."

Month four Nora got sick — not dramatically, just a fever that turned her into a person who could not negotiate utility bills. Ethan brought soup from the hospital cafeteria and sat on the edge of her bed reading aloud from a paperback he found in her brother's old room because silence made him anxious.

"You don't have to," Nora croaked.

"Clause six," he said.

"Still stupid."

"Still stupid," he agreed.

Month five Ethan's visa renewal cleared. Nora's grandmother moved into the discounted room. The contract's purpose expired like milk in the fridge — still there, still dated, suddenly sour.

They should have felt victorious.

Instead Ethan started forgetting to sleep on the couch after late shifts.

Instead Nora started leaving his name on takeout orders.

Instead they fought about dishes with the intensity of people who cared what the other thought — a violation of clause twenty-two: *Disputes resolved without emotional escalation.*

On day one hundred and forty, Helen pulled Nora aside at the nursing home and said, "He's looking at you the way my Harold looked at me before he proposed on a bus. Don't waste it on paperwork, girl."

---

Day one hundred and seventy-nine.

Nora found the contract on the counter with the exit date circled in red and a sticky note in Ethan's handwriting: *Can we talk before we sign this?*

Her coffee went cold in her hands.

Ethan came out of the shower with his hair wet and his scrubs already on — a man preparing to run if the conversation went badly.

"The visa is approved," he said. "Your grandmother's room is secure. We did the job."

"We did," Nora said.

"So."

"So."

He stepped closer. "I didn't expect you."

"Ethan."

"I didn't expect to like your notes on the fridge. Or your brother's texts about basketball. Or the way you sing off-key in the shower when you think I'm at the hospital." He swallowed. "I didn't expect to fail clause nineteen."

Nora's heart hammered. "You—"

"I haven't been with anyone. I haven't wanted anyone." His voice roughened. "I want to renegotiate."

Nora set the mug down carefully. "The contract says divorce in six months."