The Story of My Divorce
When my husband leaves me, he doesn't even realize it's our anniversary. Not our wedding anniversary. It's 20 years to the day we became a couple, when my 17-year-old self called to invite him to a New Year's Eve party I was throwing solely to see him while I was home for winter break.
It was during that phone call that we finally spoke of the fact that I'd been in love with him since I was 12 years old. I held my breath as he revealed that despite our four-year age difference, he could finally see the possibility of a future for the two of us.
Twenty years and two children later, the only man I've ever loved walks out our front door for the last time, closing it softly behind him.
Now it's "my" front door. One that from now on my husband -- let's call him M. -- will knock on when he comes to pick up our boys, instead of simply entering, to enfold me.
It's easy to recount the moment that a frayed rope finally splits in two. It's so much harder to explain what caused that first microscopic tear, which made room for the next two hundred, which made room for the next two thousand.
Could it really be that a marriage ends because one person usually feels like staying in and the other feels like going to the movies (and would it kill you to see a movie with subtitles before we die)? Because one is a saver and the other a spender? Because one wants to make a big deal out of Valentine's Day and the other forgets, and it's not the one you think? Because one really wants to read in bed, and the other really wants to not read, and it's late and I'm so tired and do we have to discuss this again right now? Could it really be?
Just as the beginning of a marriage is not one moment -- the kiss at the end of the ceremony -- neither is its conclusion as simple as the kiss-off at the end. The disentangling of two lives is a series of moments, each more surreal than the next. This is the story of those moments.August 2, 2008
M. and I are alone in the family room, arguing over something so insignificant that I can't even recall it.
It's not particularly heated.
He looks at me and says, "I want a divorce."
"Okay," I reply.
This isn't the first time either of us has brought up divorce. We knew we'd have to consider it if the silence and stonewalling didn't stop. But this is the first time that one of us truly initiated it.
M. wilts on the chair across from me and reveals that he has already seen a lawyer. This, more than anything, shocks me. This shows intent. This is premeditated.