Disclaimer: All facts gleaned from the filings stated hereafter are only as truthful as the petitioner. The tone of this article expresses a style of writing historically employed by America’s greatest writers and, as such, is for opinion purposes only. No intentional harm is due. Do not read if the topic of divorce (even your own) causes you emotional distress. Continue at your own risk.
The papers were crisp, smelling faintly of toner and the recycled air of an old office building. Somewhere between the typed lines and the signature at the bottom, Steven Henderson had placed the quiet end of a twelve-year marriage. His lawyer, William P. Hogan of St. Louis, had made sure every word carried its weight.
Steven and Shanta Marie Johnson Henderson had stood together on March 13, 2013, in the City of St. Louis and promised each other everything. But promises, like wooden beams in a long-forgotten attic, can rot without anyone noticing—until one day they give way. By January 1, 2021, the floor between them had collapsed. They walked in different rooms, then out of the same house entirely.
On August 4, 2025, the dissolution petition landed in the Circuit Court of the City of St. Louis. There are no children to draw them back, no pregnancies to complicate the parting. What’s left is a mixture of possessions and debts, the sort of leftovers that can sour if not divided quickly. The petition calls for a “fair and equitable” split, but fairness is a slippery thing when you’re dismantling a shared life.
He tells the court the marriage is irretrievably broken, beyond repair. There’s no drama in the petition’s language, just the steady, unblinking certainty of a fact that can’t be undone. A notary’s seal by Stephen William Thurmer makes it real. Somewhere in the city, amid the creak of old stairs and the hum of the courthouse elevator, this ending moves toward a judge’s desk.
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