A New Normal Life, page 1
A New Normal Life
Deborah Kedzierski
Published by Deborah Gibby, 2025.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
A NEW NORMAL LIFE
First edition. October 8, 2025.
Copyright © 2025 Deborah Kedzierski.
ISBN: 979-8999911827
Written by Deborah Kedzierski.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
About the Author
To everyone who has had to adjust to a new normal life. I hope you had friends and family to bring light to your dark days.
Prologue
I had to be there by 10 a.m.
I’d set my alarm a little later than usual, but it didn’t really matter. I don’t think I slept at all. But honestly, I had not slept well in months, maybe longer. There seemed to always be something on my mind.
By 7, I gave up. I padded downstairs to my sister’s kitchen for coffee. I’d moved in with her and my 13-year-old nephew, Mattie, a few months ago, after my husband and I agreed to go our separate ways.
I chose a suit to wear. Told myself it was for court. I would look professional and put together. Really, I just needed something that made me feel like I wouldn’t fall apart.
The weather was gentle, typical of early spring in North Texas. A little chill in the air when I stepped outside, but it would warm into the 60s by afternoon.
It was the kind of day that hinted at something new—fresh starts, open windows, everything in bloom.
And somehow, that made it worse.
How could the world carry on like nothing had happened?
How could the sun shine-today of all days-when everything I had known will be forever changed.
The traffic toward Denton was light. I felt a pang of sympathy for the people heading south toward Dallas or Fort Worth—bumper to bumper already.
I arrived at the courthouse earlier than expected and found a parking spot easily. I’d been here a few times before for jury duty, though I’d never actually served.
I sat in the car, staring at the building, wondering how it had come to this. We loved each other so much in the beginning. Supposedly, we still did. I just couldn’t feel it from him. I couldn’t say I felt loved. When did that change? When did it stop being enough? Was there something I could have done differently? Could I have compromised any more? God, these words-change and compromise-had become my nemesis over the last few years. Why did things have to change at all when they were so good once. How much of myself did I have to give up to be worthy?
I wondered if he would show. He’d signed the papers, agreeing to everything. He didn’t have to be here. But still—I wondered. Would he come anyway? Would he choose me, choose us, before it was too late?
But I knew better. He’d made his choice in a million subtle ways already.
I steeled myself, grabbed my bag, and headed inside.
The security guard at the door gave me a kind smile as I passed through the metal detector. “Have a good day,” she said.
I nodded, managing a faint smile in return.
The courthouse lobby was cavernous, sound echoing off veined marble floors and stone walls. A large brass seal was embedded in the floor at the base of a sweeping staircase. Hallways stretched to the left and right like open arms. I climbed to the third floor where the district courts were and found Courtroom B.
As I entered the room, I was struck by this feeling that the air in the room was somehow different-more still, thicker. Every breath felt like I was pulling it through a straw. All the noise from the hallways and lobby vanished behind me, like someone had pressed mute. It felt like time was standing still.
I took a seat halfway back, near the aisle. I’d never been in a courtroom before. It was smaller than I imagined—intimate, almost. Just five rows of benches for observers. Two small tables sat in front of the railing, each with two chairs. The judge’s bench wasn’t in the center. Instead, it was U-shaped, with the judge seated to the left, a nameplate marking her place. There were computer monitors at every seat, even the judge’s. I found that strangely out of place.
A young couple breezed in, the clattering of the door opening an abrupt disruption in the cloying quiet. They chatted like old friends, at ease in a way that seemed misplaced, considering where we were. Maybe one of them was a client, the other their lawyer. They sat up front, close together.
As the minutes ticked away, I contemplated leaving. I could have just gotten up and walked out. I could have stopped it. He told me the ball was in my court. I could tell him I changed my mind-agreed to his demands for reconciliation.
If he'd done anything, just one thing, to meet me part of the way. But he didn’t. Instead, he just said “File. I’m done.”
At exactly 10:00 a.m., a bailiff stepped through a door behind the bench.
“All rise! The Texas 342nd District Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Tanya McPherson presiding.”
We stood as the judge entered, flanked by two other people. One sat beside her; the other took the spot at the court reporter’s desk. Then we were directed to be seated.
The judge’s presence made me suddenly nervous. My knee bounced, and I twisted the ring on my right hand over and over. It was a Mother’s Day gift from the kids a few years ago—four birthstones in a row: theirs in the center, mine and their father’s on each end. A little band of who we were, all together.
The bailiff called the young couple’s case. They walked up, and I could see the bailiff swear both of them in. They exchanged a few words with the judge. I couldn’t hear what was said. Moments later, they walked out smiling, just as relaxed as they had been coming in.
Then: “The following case is now before the court—Case #DR22-8654. In the matter of the dissolution of marriage between Timothy Edward Masters and Renee Millicent Masters. Would the parties please approach the bench.”
I stood. My legs felt heavy. I walked to the front, toward the bench. The judge didn’t look up. I wondered how many times a day she was called to dissolve a marriage. She must be numb to the tears and pained expressions.
The bailiff reached over the bench with a bible in his hand. I touched the bible, and in a cruel twist, remembered the last time I did — we did — promising forever.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I do.” I said, and moved to stand before the judge.
“I’m going to ask you a few quick questions, and then you’ll be on your way. Please state your full name.”
My mouth was dry. My eyes brimmed with tears. I don’t think I was even breathing.
“Renee Millicent Masters,” I whispered, voice shaky.
The judge looked up sharply. Her expression softened. There was empathy in her eyes—real empathy. She held my gaze as she asked the remaining questions. Her voice was calm and gentle. Professional, but kind. She continued with her questions, and I responded to each speaking as little as possible.
“You have no reasonable expectation for reconciliation?” she asked.
I hesitated. I had sworn to tell the truth. For the first time, I finally accepted the truth.
“No, Your Honor”.
She continued with a few more questions, then she signed the documents in front of her and handed them to me.
“Ms. Masters, take these down to the clerk on the first floor—just to the right when you come down the stairs. They’ll file them and give you a copy.”
I reached for the papers.
She paused. “Good luck to you, Ms. Masters.”
No one tells you how quiet endings are.
The beginning is months of planning and parties, culminating in the grandest celebration of all.
The end is a few simple questions, and a signature. Only minutes.
I stared down at the papers as I waited in line at the clerk’s office. I had no words.
What was left to say?
I had no tears left. I left them in that courtroom.
I headed for the exit feeling like I was missing a piece of myself. But I wasn’t even sure what that piece was.
I walked in a wife. A part of a couple, a marriage.
I was walking out...something else.
I just didn't know what yet.
A few minutes later, I stepped outside. The sun was still shining, the sky still blue.
The world hadn’t changed.
But I had.
I was alone.
Chapter 1
I walked out of the courthouse and spotted a bench nearby. I sat down, needing a minute to process what had just happened.
I was having all kinds of feelings all at once-sadness, relief, confusi
There really should be a guidebook for the recently—and I mean very recently—divorced. Something like: “So You Just Lost a Husband: Now What?”
Maybe I should call someone.
I didn’t really feel like talking-I didn’t want to be that friend. The kind that ruins a perfectly good Tuesday with today’s episode of Law and Order: Divorce Addition.
I definitely don’t want to call the kids. Even adult children get bruised in a divorce.
Should I call my ex-husband?
Holy crap—I have an ex-husband.
I’m someone’s ex-wife now.
Wow.
That wasn’t exactly on my childhood vision board. I wanted to be a teacher, a ballerina, maybe a nun. Never once thought, “You know what would be fun? Divorce court before lunch.”
When did I have to change my social media relationship status? Is there a waiting period? Do I just slide over to “Single,” or is “It’s complicated” a required layover?
Do I have to make an announcement? Should there be cake? A registry? “Newly divorced and accepting Target gift cards.”
Maybe something more like a marital obituary?
“Renee Masters, beloved wife of twenty-plus years, passed peacefully from matrimony this morning at 10:17 a.m., survived by her Honda Accord and impressive shoe collection.”
Maybe I should’ve sent Save the Date cards for the hearing.
Color scheme: soft gray and mild despair.
Matching tissues and pens for signing the paperwork.
I was deep in this mental Pinterest board of post-divorce stationery when a man walked out of the courthouse and dropped onto the bench beside me. He let out a long, weary sigh and slumped forward.
“Hi,” he said, offering me a wan smile.
I’d never really understood what a wan smile was—until I realized I was wearing one. It’s the smile you fake when your feelings are on strike, especially the happy ones.
I gave him a matching one.
“Hi.”
“Rough morning?” he asked.
“Final divorce hearing.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said, with genuine sympathy.
“Thanks.” I meant it. Somehow, kindness from a stranger felt better than pity from someone I knew.
I figured I should return the favor. “What brings you here?”
“Mediation,” he said with a groan. “But we finally reached an agreement. Yeah!” He gave a mock cheer. “It only cost me the cappuccino maker. But I get more time with my son now, so—totally worth it.”
“How old is your son?”
“He’ll be 10 in May.”
“Well... congratulations?”
Was that the right response to losing a coffee maker but gaining visitation?
“Or... good for you? I don’t know what to say.”
He laughed. “It’s okay. I’m just glad it’s done. Now we can both move on.”
Move on. Right.
I stood up to leave.
“Hey—I’m David, by the way.”
I nodded. “Enjoy the rest of your day, David.”
“You too.” Another sad smile.
It was a little comforting to realize I wasn’t the only person dealing with marital fallout. For weeks, I’d felt like the universe had singled me out-like I was the only one who’d ever sat on the edge of a bed and wondered how love turned into...this.
But standing outside the courthouse, seeing other people—some sad, some relieved, some just tired—it hit me: this happens all the time. Every day, at courthouses just like this one, people untangle lives they once vowed to share forever.
I wasn't alone.
It’s easy to sink into the belief that your pain is uniquely awful, and declare yourself the Most Emotionally Wrecked Person on Earth. But the truth is, heartbreak is painfully ordinary. Universal, even.
With that sad perspective, I left for my car.
I had only made it a few steps, when a terrifying thought hit me: I’d just had a conversation with a stranger outside a courthouse.
A courthouse, where people get divorced... but also where criminals roam. Real ones. Serial killers. Embezzlers. People who don’t return shopping carts.
And there I was, chatting it up like we were old friends at Target.
Is this what happens after divorce? Do you lose your sense of self-preservation along with your monogrammed towels? Did I unknowingly sign away my common sense in the divorce settlement—right between the air fryer and the Hulu login?
My mother would be horrified. She taught me better than this. She watches Dateline.
For all I knew, he could’ve really been one of those criminals.
I picked up the pace, grateful I was wearing flats. My “quick pace” turned into an all-out run as I imagined unexpected audits, or a knife in my back. I glanced over my shoulder—no one. Then again, he could be ducking behind cars. You never know. Embezzlers were known to be very clever.
I hit the unlock button on my key fob and reached for the first door I could grab—the back door. I dove in, slammed it shut, and hit the lock button. I heard the locks engage, then disengage.
I hit the lock button again. Again the locks engaged, then disengaged.
I mashed the button several times
Locked.
Unlocked.
Locked.
Unlocked again.
Then it hit me: the locks wouldn’t stay engaged unless I was in the driver’s seat-some new child-safety feature, which would have been extremely helpful about 21 years ago when I’d locked my baby and my keys in the car at daycare drop-off. Twice.
I peered around the parking lot—still no sign of the Court House Killer/Embezzler —but I stayed on high alert. I had to get into the driver’s seat. Fast.
One hand on each front seat, I tried to hoist my leg over. My left foot got stuck in the steering wheel. I stood on my tiptoes, twisting and softly cursing.
OK—maybe not softly.
How did we do this in college? We used to crawl into the back seat all the time like it was an Olympic sport. And I was a gold medalist back then. Maybe love—and a flood of hormones—makes you more flexible. Now? I felt like a retired athlete watching reruns of the big game with an ice pack and Bengay.
Still no sign of the Court House Killer/embezzler.
Take two. I sat on the center console and swiveled, dropping one leg into the driver’s seat, then the other.
I was mid-hoist into the front seat when I saw movement in the car next to me and heard a knock on my window.
A woman was peering in the driver’s window with a look of concern.
“Are you okay? Should I call 9-1-1? I know CPR!”
“I’m fine. Thank you!” I chirped, trying to smile like I wasn’t giving a yoga class in my Honda Accord.
She smiled, gave a little shake of her head, and walked off.
Eventually, I got into the driver’s seat, adjusted the power seat, locked the doors—and this time, the locks stayed locked. I exhaled. I was safe. Probably.
Still, I glanced in the rear-view mirror one last time, just to be sure.
I made it to the exit and was waiting for traffic when I heard a horn.
David? Dylan? Darren? —what did he say his name was?-was in a car beside me, waving. He motioned for me to roll down my window. Either that or he was dancing. Hard to say.
I rolled it down, just in case. Maybe I left my gas cap off again.
“Hey! I noticed you run,” he said. “I go to a running group on Wednesdays. We meet at Moonwinks off the square. Three miles. Super casual. You should come!”
“Will do. Thanks,” I said, though I was more of a mall walker than a runner. Preferably in air conditioning. Preferably near a shoe sale.
He waved and turned right.
I waved, rolled up my window, and headed to the office.
Chapter 2
The divorce final, I continued my post-separation routine-sleep, work, mope, cry, repeat. My nephew would often interrupt the critical mope and cry time by having me watch a movie or play a game with him. I honestly don’t know how I could have made it without him.
I had been staying with my sister for about 6 weeks when I started to feel like it was time to find a place of my own. I was moping and crying less and less each day. It was great having my sister’s support while I worked out the marriage and divorce. But I was starting to miss my own things. I called Sharon, a longtime family friend and Realtor, and told her I was ready to find a house.
