During our divorce trial, my husband showed no emotion as he sought to end our 20-year marriage. Moments before the judgment was read, my 8-year-old niece stood up and asked the judge to show a video of what she had witnessed at home, shocking everyone in the courtroom.
“Ma’am,” the courier said gently, recognizing the hollow look in my eyes, “I just need your signature here.”
My hand trembled as I signed. When the door closed behind him, I leaned against it, pressing my forehead to the wood, as if I could somehow keep reality from entering the house.
Our house.
The one we bought thirty-eight years ago, when our oldest daughter, Jessica, was still a toddler. The house where we raised three children, celebrated birthdays and graduations, mourned losses, and hosted countless holidays. Just last week, I had been planning our forty-third anniversary dinner—debating whether to make his favorite roast or reserve a table at the restaurant where we’d gone on our first date.
The house was painfully quiet.
The only sounds were the steady ticking of the grandfather clock Robert had inherited from his parents and, somewhere outside, the distant laughter of my eight-year-old granddaughter, Emily, playing in the backyard. Jessica was working from home in the spare bedroom, still navigating her own divorce after her marriage collapsed last year.
The irony made my chest ache.
I had been supporting my daughter through her heartbreak—offering childcare, comfort, reassurance—never imagining that I would soon be standing at the edge of the same emotional cliff.
My phone rang.
Robert’s name lit up the screen.
For a fleeting, foolish moment, hope flickered. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he was calling to say the papers were sent in error, that we needed to talk, that he still loved me.
“Catherine,” he said coolly. “I assume you received the papers.”
His voice was flat. Professional. Nothing like the warm tone he’d used when he kissed my cheek that morning before leaving for work. Nothing like the voice that had whispered I love you just three nights earlier as we watched a movie on the couch.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “If something was wrong, why didn’t you talk to me?”
“There’s no point dragging this out. We’ve grown apart. We want different things.”
“What different things?” I asked, my voice breaking. “We’ve been planning retirement together. Traveling. Spending time with the grandchildren. What changed?”
“Everything,” he replied. “I’ve hired an attorney. You should do the same. If we stay reasonable, this doesn’t have to get ugly.”
Reasonable.
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