I drove to a hotel near the interstate, one of those business hotels with beige walls, silent carpets, and a lobby that smelled like lemon cleaner. The woman at the front desk asked for my ID and credit card. I handed over my personal card, the one Caleb always said we should cancel because joint points were better. She smiled politely and gave me a room key.
To her, I was just a tired woman checking in after midnight.
Maybe she saw the mascara under my eyes. Maybe she had seen too many women arrive alone with no luggage. Maybe hotel clerks know more about marriages than therapists do. She did not ask.
The room was on the third floor. King bed. Desk. Armchair. A framed print of a bridge that could have belonged to any city in America. I locked the door, latched the chain, checked the window, and sat at the desk without turning on the TV.
Sleep did not come.
Instead, I took the hotel notepad and cheap pen and started writing.
Maya had said temporary orders like they were ordinary. To her, they were. To me, the phrase sounded both terrifying and miraculous. A judge’s quick, blunt decision about who stayed where and who could touch what while the bigger divorce machine began to grind.