The following Saturday, we went to the small courthouse where I had once stood outside begging attorneys to read his file.
My brother served as our witness.
Jonah’s mother attended but sat in the second row, giving us the distance she had finally learned to respect.
There was no scratched glass between us.
No guard watched the clock.
No payment waited in an envelope.
Jonah took both my hands.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
The black box was at home, no longer filled with forged proxies and bank records.
We had placed our letters inside it instead—the paid ones, the honest ones, and all the pages written during the uncertain space between them.
The first time I married Jonah, I was paid to stay.
The second time, nobody paid me, and when he asked whether I was sure, I answered before fear had a chance to speak.
