My dream of teaching our kids to ride a two-wheeler outside our home together had just vanished, along with our plans to take our kids on an African safari when they were teenagers. And just so you know, one day I will write about this.” The next morning, I tore all his expensive suits off the wooden hangers in our closet and shoved them into crinkly black plastic garbage bags. “You’re a liar, a cheat, unfaithful dog / You threw away all our love and trust / It’s so hard to see just who you are! My brother Jarrad was constantly at my house, fixing whatever my kids had accidentally pulled off the wall that day. He rented a condo nearby and bought them beds and Cinderella sheets and toys so they would feel comfortable with the new arrangement. Who would love them like I do and want to live with us? I bought several pairs of high heels, flirty dresses, designer jeans and low-cut tops.
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But the days stretched into a confusing blur of weeks. His car was more expensive, so I’d be outside in the belly of winter scraping the ice off my windshield. Instead of coming home for dinner like he used to, now he missed the kids’ bath time every night. He wasn’t particularly interested in me, the kids or expanding our family like we had always planned. It is nearly impossible to describe the depth of pain you feel when you suffer a loss.
I knew that we had been struggling, but I was so caught up in daily family life that I hadn’t noticed just how bad it was. He was always needed at work dinners, at business meetings that lasted until the wee hours and on frequent trips. In one instant, I had lost my best childhood friend, the boy who took me to prom, the person who could articulate my thoughts better than I could. I’d beg God — if there even was a God — to make the pain stop.
Two weeks earlier, Phillip, my husband of eight years — my high school sweetheart, best friend, father of my two toddlers, Carrie and Isabelle — had told me he was unhappy. The contents of that envelope marked the end of my marriage.