Things started to fall apart. There seemed to be nothing she could do to stop it. It was like a runaway train. He was the engine, and she was the caboose. He engineered her destiny, and she was just along for the ride, praying she wouldn’t become disconnected.
One night, the whole thing derailed. He admitted to “having affairs”. She was devastated. She grew up Catholic, she believed in the vows of marriage that she took. It was supposed to be until death do we part, not until you find somebody better. She never had known anyone who had an affair and had stayed married. But divorce was a dirty word to her.
She cried that night, and for the next three months. She could not eat, she could not sleep. She looked like a ghost. She went to work, and then came home and cried all night. Her boss at work and all her friends thought she had cancer or something just as bad. She wished. You can beat cancer sometimes. She felt she would never be able to heal her broken heart.
One day she came home from work, to find everything gone. All of his belongings. Empty closet. She dropped to her knees on the floor. She felt as though someone has just punched her in the stomach and sucked out all her air. She lost it for a few days, totally non-functioning.
Was any of this her fault? Of course it was. Instead of focusing on her job and her friends, she should have focused on her husband, even though he traveled a lot. She should have made his time at home more welcoming. She should have quit her damn job, or made more romantic gestures. But she didn’t. She didn’t know the clock had been ticking its final countdown.
Door #2 had been slammed shut. Door #3 read DIVORCE. She was pushed through that door, kicking and screaming the whole way.