Last Thursday, the state of Washington provided a court date for me. It was Family Court, which is a term that sends shivers down the spine of anyone who’s gone. Security checked me in an hour before my appointment. Not knowing exactly where it was or what would happen, I showed up too early. With nothing to do, I quickly got bored and left to get a mocha at nearby Java House. I’ve been going to that coffee shop for twenty years. This is the best reason to be a townie: when times are tough, there’s always a familiar face or place, which is immensely comforting.

Back at the Family Court annex, I went through security again and tried to sit still. I couldn’t. Clutching my folder full of papers that effectively break up my family as it’s been, I paced. Looking around, everyone else was so goddamned sad. I was in the right place.

A few minutes before the courtroom opened, I saw someone I knew. This is Family Court, which is one of the most humbling places a human being can find herself/himself, so I turned around and went to the drinking fountain.  I wasn’t embarrassed to be there, but I wanted to respect his privacy. He didn’t care though, and smiled and said “Hey.” We briefly exchanged stories about what brought us to court that day.

Okay, maybe I was a little embarrassed to be there.

Finally, my room opened, and a couple dozen sorry sacks like me piled onto the benches. The clerk sat at the front, which looked like an altar at a church. Elevated above the rest of the room, with a fancy wooden table area and gold embossed portraits on the wall, there was a religious feel to it. The seats were just like the ones at the Catholic Church I attended as a kid. Like a supplicant, I waited to hear what the judge had to say; secretly I prayed for redemption.

The judge was thirty minutes late and very apologetic. Old as the state of Washington itself, he had white hair and deep set eyes. Immediately, he started in with the jokes.

Explaining he was only trying to lighten the mood, the judge apologized if he offended anyone. I thought he was funny, and apparently everyone else did too. Politely, we giggled at his gentle teasing.

There were twenty-three families on the docket this day. At first I hoped the list was alphabetical, but I quickly learned it was not. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I had an intuition my case would be last. As I listened to the judge chat up each and every person who approached his bench, I knew this was going to be a long afternoon.

One older guy wearing a leather coat with Budweiser embroidered to the back presented his paperwork. The judge looked at it twice, surprised, and clarified what he was reading with the guy. Nodding, the guy agreed to the facts. He and his wife had married in the late 1970’s, separated in the late 1990’s, and were now seeking a divorce.

“What took you so long?” asked the judge.

For the rest of the afternoon, the Budweiser guy was the butt of all the jokes. But the mood wasn’t so mirthful again. Wives cried, husbands looked guilty or confused, family friends looked firm in their support of their loved ones. Every time the old judge looked a couple in the eyes and told them, “You are now divorced,” it felt like a little stab in my heart, and I believe, his too. So much pain in one room…I thought I’d lose my fucking mind with the waves of grief.

Repeatedly, the judge implored couples with kids to keep the kids’ needs at the front of their minds. He told us to get along with our exes, be respectful, because whatever you say about the other parent, children feel you’re saying it to them. I hear this, I really do. It’s a difficult thing.

While I waited, my ex texted me. He wasn’t going to be able to pick up our youngest son in time because he was stuck in traffic. It was his job to take care of the kids, and I would take care of court. Helplessly, I sat in the courtroom, watching the clock, knowing I couldn’t leave. My face turned beet red and I muttered curse words beneath my breath.

Texting him the phone number of the school, I waited impatiently for a reply. Eventually, it worked out, and my youngest sat at the office for a few minutes before his dad got to the school. Not the end of the world, but it added a layer of stress to a nearly unbearable situation for me.

After the entire courtroom of people had had their turn, it was finally mine. Long past nervous, I was depleted when I stepped before the judge and handed his clerk my paperwork. He wasn’t in a hurry, and chatted me up. He got a little history from me. Such a kindly old man, I felt compassion for him to have to do this job, this terribly hard job, of listening to people’s sad stories and dissolving their marriages for hours a week. Seems to me it would be more draining than being a therapist.

I explained why my ex is offering more child support and spousal support than is required by the state. I’ve been at home full time with my kids for years, but I’m going back to work teaching next month. He was sympathetic. He asked what I’ll teach and I explained I’m an artist, a painter, and that I’ll work through a nearby gallery teaching classes. He asked if I show my work and I told him yes, but that the business side of art had been put on the back burner time and again. He said emphatically, “Oh, I loooove talent! Don’t hide yourself! Put yourself out there!”

Then he told me if I have any paintings with a Southwest theme to bring them in so he can see them. He and his wife are decorating their new home in Arizona and need art. Actually, I don’t have anything ready right now, but I might whip up a small painting for him next week and drop it off at the courthouse as a gift.

After we talked about me, he talked about my children and how it would be hardest on them. He, his clerk, and I choked up when he said he’d seen this sort of thing time and again. And he supposed it was me up all night with the kids when there’re sick, and me taking them to all of their medical appointments. His kindness and understanding undid me. I openly cried, grabbing tissue from the bench to mop up my face.

The weight of the years washed over me while I stood in front of the judge and his clerk in Family Court. Over a decade of sorrow and difficulties condensed in that moment... and I did feel redeemed. 

The judge instructed me on some paperwork I didn’t have which I would need for the divorce several months from now. Stamping my paperwork, he told me, “You are legally separated.” We smiled and nodded. I told him “Thank you,” and really meant it.

The building was nearly empty when I walked out of the courtroom. The police officer who sat court walked me out, not saying anything, but smiling sympathetically. I could not have been treated with more kindness than I was at Family Court.