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  At last, Sunday morning arrived. It was time for cleaning and packing up. Vehicles were reloaded, there was talk of another gathering, goodbyes were said, and we were on our way. The drive home was even worse than the one up. The trip was a total blur of continuous sobbing on my part, which racked my entire being and exhausted both of us. Once more, he reached for me, this time to assure me, “Nothing will change. We just won’t be married.” His statements transported me immediately back to the moment, and, dumbfounded by his words, I asked for clarification. He replied that he envisioned a world for us of continued family gatherings, children and grandchildren together for milestone events and celebrations, festive holidays, and home-cooked meals, planned and prepared by me. He stated, “We would just be divorced.”

  Experiencing a moment of extreme clarity, I sat ramrod straight. “What are you thinking?” I asked. “Have you lost your mind? You want to be done with the marriage but want everything to remain the same? How do you imagine that could possibly work?” He did not respond.

  When we arrived at our house, too tired to do any more driving, he informed me he would be staying the night.

  He had already erected a wall of silence around himself, though I tried repeatedly to break it down. I begged for intervention. I asked for another chance. I claimed full responsibility for poor behavior. I would have said or done anything to return my life to the way it had been only a week before. I appealed to his compassion. “What will I do here alone? I have no job, no network, no future.” In fact, I had only recently sold my previous home. “We were here as a unit, and now I’ll be completely on my own.”

  Still, only silence, throughout the house, throughout the evening. Until the phone rang, identifying his son as the caller. Of course it was I who answered. Thinking there would be news of another grandchild on the way, I soon learned there was no joyful announcement to offset this horrific situation. His son needed help with his insurance company. I stepped in to offer assistance and eventually resolved the issue—mean as I was. The call over, all conversation again stopped and the house was silent.

  Try as I might, I realized there was no escaping this. He was determined to end our life together. I texted a friend to cancel an upcoming visit. Praying for a kiss-and-make-up scenario, I spent a sleepless night in the bed beside him. The following morning, as he headed out the door, I said, “Goodbye.”

  I heard only, “Get an attorney and decide what you want.”

  As I stumbled back inside, I left the shutters closed to keep the outside world at bay and made my way to the sofa, where the tears began again. I have to be evil. He says I am. I had thought him to be the better half, the one who inspired me always to rise to my best. I had been certain he loved me completely and unconditionally. So if he was done and he said I was to blame, I must indeed be responsible for the destruction of our marriage.

  Minutes after his departure, Jim called and asked if he could come back so we could talk. Again, hoping this was all a huge misunderstanding, I quickly responded, “Yes!” I brushed my hair and my teeth and anxiously anticipated the apology that I was certain would come. Instead of begging forgiveness, he reminded me yet again of my despicable behavior. He insisted I had blatantly dismissed his pleas for me to change. Aside from an occasional offhand comment when he had asked, “Can you throw me a bone?” I had heard no such plaintive requests for behavioral change, only repeated reminders of his unconditional and enduring love. I implored him to understand that I had never clearly understood his message. Again, I apologized. Again, I took full responsibility. Again, he was gone.

  There were two more trips back over the following weekends, but little conversation. He displayed a noticeable animosity and hostility that I had never seen before. His behavior was so out of character, he seemed a completely different man. I knew there were limited scenarios to cause such change and attempted to discover the reason. I asked, “Is everything still going well on the job?”

  A nod.

  “Have you started to experience any new health issues?”

  A curt “no.”

  “Have you been seeing someone while you’ve been away and want to develop a deeper relationship with her?”

  A resounding “There is no one else. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  When I asked why he even bothered to return, he replied, “To take care of things—like the lawn.” When I reminded him that I was perfectly capable of taking care of things—including the lawn—and had done it on my own for years, his absence became permanent and official.

  In a futile effort to maintain appearances, he returned for a prearranged weekend when my daughter and her boyfriend came to visit. That was a huge mistake. He remained distant and aloof in his interactions, and all but he were clearly uncomfortable. He spent a few hours with me, searching for a new car and revisiting a favorite lunch spot—another desperate and unsuccessful attempt to reclaim my quickly vanishing existence in his life—but then, again, he was gone, with no further word.

  Far too long, I remained on the sofa, shutters closed, tears falling uncontrollably. Hours turned to days, and days to weeks. I was unwilling to leave the house. The shame I felt was immense. I had never experienced pain so deep or emotion so raw, and the unexpected loss immobilized me. I was unable to make sense of what was happening to me, or why. Whatever was I going to do? I had no income, no resources, and now no husband. As he knew, I had always been terrified of homelessness, yet it appeared that some variation of that scenario might be a real possibility.

  I had never had much appetite for or interest in food, but suddenly my body was unable to process it at all. It seemed to sense when nourishment was on the way; it shut down my digestive system and immediately eliminated anything I had ingested. Without notice, thirteen pounds vanished from my body and clothes hung from my frame.

  I did not take calls from my daughters or friends. How could I talk to or face anyone? Who would want to talk to me? After all, according to what I was being told, I had destroyed a perfectly wonderful relationship and man by being selfish and mean. I did, however, occasionally respond to a text from Robbie and explain that I was unable to talk, capable only of tears.

  More time passed. After four miserable weeks, I received yet another text from Robbie. This one contained an ultimatum. She would be calling in ten minutes and was willing to listen to nothing but sobbing. She was going to connect. If I did not answer her call, she would send the police to check on my well-being and would then arrive on my doorstep as soon as she could safely travel the distance between us. Unable to ignore her growing concern, I took the call. Immediately, the floodgates opened and the story began to spill forth.

  As promised, Robbie arrived from Atlanta a few days later and movement began. The search for a therapist for me commenced in earnest. I reached out to my older daughter to research and procure a new vehicle. I had been looking for months and would now require something that could haul things, as a second vehicle would no longer be on hand and my sporty coupe would not suffice.

  Surprisingly, when it came time for me to start looking for an attorney, I reached out to the person I knew least but admired most: a woman in the neighborhood whom I saw routinely in day-to-day life and occasionally at neighborhood gatherings. A woman who seemed to float above the mundane happenings of our suburban environment. A woman who always remained friendly but was clearly not bound by the quotidian occurrences of the people around her. A person who seemed genuinely committed to making her marriage and family her top priority and happily did whatever was necessary to secure and maintain those priorities, with no concern about what others might think of her choices. A woman who, while attending a ladies-only gathering of neighbors, guiltlessly excused herself to return home to share with her children a long-distance call from her husband, who was deployed overseas. A mother who, while attending a couples’ event with her spouse, hastily returned home to attend to and console her daughter, who had fallen from her bike and slid across the pavement
. A woman who, when asked, “How do you manage to keep up the pace when your husband is gone so much and your children are so active?” replied, “I have only one shot at this, and it’s my commitment in life.” A person with what appeared to be the strongest marriage I had seen since I had moved to Summerville.

  I don’t know why I chose to appeal to her or why she listened patiently to my plea. However, coincidentally, her two closest friends were well-respected attorneys themselves, and one of them had just been through a divorce. They gave me the names of two candidates who might represent me in this process. I researched both and chose to meet with the one who was my age and who had secured a fair and equitable settlement for the referring attorney who had just finalized her divorce.

  That referral afforded me an inroad that enabled me to bypass the wait and delays typically required of a new client. I met with the lawyer the next day. The first thing I noticed when I was shown into her office was how very cold I felt. The air-conditioning was set at a low temperature, and the window was open. Undaunted—and making a mental note to dress in layers for future meetings, until she provided me with a cozy throw from Pottery Barn to keep me comfortable during our lengthy discussions—I sat across the desk from an animated, professional, and welcoming woman.

  As I wondered how or where to begin my saga, she suggested, “Just tell the story,” and the recent events began to tumble out tearfully. I explained that this was my second divorce and that I wished to avoid the hostility, pain, and expense I had experienced during my first.

  Taking notes, suggesting I consider hiring a private investigator, and assuring me that she, too, preferred an amicable settlement, she talked of options, retainers, potential additional costs, and a payment plan. She walked me gently from her office to my vehicle and reminded me to drive safely on my way home.

  After reviewing and discussing this information with Robbie, I took two crucial steps. I called the company holding the one credit card I had and significantly raised my available credit limit to cover legal fees. I then called the attorney’s office to schedule another appointment. I returned the next day, signed the required papers, swiped my credit card for the retainer, and headed home again to await the packet of information that would guide me through the steps of the divorce process, as well as the monthly statements of services that I would shortly begin to receive. I felt tremendous relief after accomplishing such an important task. So, bolstered by the added strength and support I derived from Robbie’s presence, I continued moving forward.

  I scheduled doctors’ appointments to test for STDs and check on my general health. I had an old crown replaced and purchased new prescription sunglasses while I still had access to two insurance companies to cover costs. I composed and sent letters and messages to children, family, and friends about the restructuring of my marriage. Early communications were deliberately vague and elusive, as it was unimaginable to me that he would really end our relationship because he had determined that I was mean. I explained that some unexpected issues had arisen that needed further examining and discussion.

  As more time passed and he remained unyielding to my requests for communication, I explained that we would take time apart to step back and reexamine the direction in which we were headed. Finally, as I realized he had meant it when he said, “The marriage is over,” I explained to others that, although I was confused by the decision and would need some time to sort through the situation, we had, sadly, agreed to terminate our marriage. Both of my daughters called immediately, asking, “How can we help? What do you need?” I received no acknowledgment from either of his children.

  Having already accomplished so much, I had a bit of time to partake in activities during the annual Spoleto Festival of music and art, which allowed me to feel almost human for the first time in more than six weeks. Robbie and I squeezed in a little shopping at my favorite boutique, and I purchased a lovely pair of pajamas to mark the passing of my first wedding anniversary spent alone. Even with Robbie’s encouragement and amid all the festival fare, I still could not keep food down; however, I believed that venturing out at all was a great start—and I would take a gain wherever possible.

  Knowing that I would need continued support after Robbie’s departure, I determined to spend time at the beach. I was still part owner of three beach houses, and the ocean always restored my sense of calm and returned me to center. After the beach, I would drive on to see my daughters. I had no plan for my time off; I wished only to regain my focus and perhaps lick my wounds. Food was not necessary. I spent my days soaking up the sun and walking along the familiar contours of the comforting landscape. I collected the few shells that were available and listened to the breaking waves, as I had done for so many years at this very spot. I visited favorite shops where I purchased nothing and restaurants where I was unable to eat.

  He had told me that I had anger issues, although he had never mentioned any such patterns—anger-related or otherwise—prior to his announcement that he was leaving. While there, I read a book on anger management and quickly realized that I had no anger issues whatsoever—he had been wrong. I tried several times to connect with him in yet another attempt to resolve what I still considered a misunderstanding. He was still unwilling to talk. My niece, who lived nearby, brought her family to visit for a day, and I watched as they enjoyed Subway sandwiches on the beach. The children were a happy diversion, and I treated them all to barbecue before they headed back home at the end of the day.

  After a week at the beach, it was time to continue north to my daughters for their support. I knew it would be a difficult visit for all of us as we addressed this unexpected loss. He had been a reliable and consistent presence in our lives for thirteen years. At times, because of his calm demeanor and close proximity, he seemed even closer to them than their own father. He had helped both of them settle into dorm rooms and moved them into numerous apartments and homes. He had helped with homework, offered advice on school and home loans, and attended graduations and weddings. However, they set aside any questions they had to offer their allegiance and support to a mother in desperate need. They reminded me, “If he has opted out, there is nothing you can do to opt him back in.” They wrapped loving arms around me and encouraged me with supportive words. “What can we do to help? Stay as long as you want! We had no clue.” They provided noisy distractions from my pain as they insisted, “You have to eat something” and escorted me throughout town for bar-and-restaurant hopping.

  While visiting, I received two unexpected and disturbing text messages. In the first, he asked me to call and catch him up on the girls’ lives. I reminded him that he had their contact information and could catch up on his own. I also suggested to him that he was not a priority in their lives at that moment.

  The second text was even more bizarre and upsetting. In it, he voiced his confusion at my disbelief and sense of betrayal when he ended our relationship. After all, his dissatisfaction had been ongoing for years and shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone.

  Years? I had retired, relocated, and just sold my home. Would I have done any of that if I had known for years that he was unhappy?

  Fortunately, he was a state away and I was empty-handed. If he had been near, I envisioned myself wielding a baseball bat at his head and taking great pleasure at the sight and sound of the splat after impact.

  Yes, perhaps I was indeed mean.

  I texted him and suggested that he remove his belongings while I was away. This story was over.

  Unheeding of my daughter’s suggestion to extend my stay, I decided it was time to return home. While I was certainly in no hurry to get back to an empty house, I felt as if I had burdened my daughters enough. It was time, at least briefly, to face the new reality of my life. Grateful I had made the trip safely, and turning into my driveway, I retrieved my mail, only to be met by a neighbor walking her dogs. This woman was accustomed to my frequent travel and vagabond ways, but my unexpected and lengthy trip away had surprised her.
Maintaining a constant flow of conversation, she asked about the fun I had experienced on my vacation. For the first time, the story tumbled out to someone other than those closest and most trusted in my life. My neighbor expressed the same shock as I myself had experienced. “You two? Who would ever have imagined you wouldn’t be a forever thing? He adored you.”

  I had thought the same myself. Again, grief overwhelmed me. As I entered my home, I wondered again how I would ever survive this ordeal.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Time for New Pillows

  “You have everything it takes, but it will take everything you have.”

  —UNKNOWN

  AFTER I RETURNED FROM THE BEACH, SUPPORT continued in the form of daily phone calls from my older daughter and Robbie, as well as scheduled visits to and from both. I was never left by myself for longer than four weeks. However, right now, I was once again on my own. As I walked into my home after my time away, I immediately sensed a difference. I was totally alone and would continue to be that way. No one would arrive on Friday afternoons eager to see me and share quality time. No one would want to linger Sunday mornings, postponing the time he would have to be away.

  Still immobilized by unexpected betrayal and grief, I moved through my days in a zombie-like trance. Listlessly wandering from room to room, I had little interest in anything beyond surviving each day. Memories continued to flood my mind. I could think of nothing more than the fact that he was gone and I was alone. I was certain that if anyone appeared at my door, I would look even more pathetic than I felt. I experienced a sudden memory of the stinging words he had directed at me on the trip, and, in an unexpected moment of emotional strength and defiance, I knew I had to do something. So, two months after his departure, I began my first round of purging, in the hope that I might fool myself into thinking I could return to a normal state.