Apromise to myself: this year is a new beginning for me. A
fresh start, in more ways than one. I'm determined to put
the divorce behind me. About time, too, since it's been
final for over a year. Okay, thirteen months and six days
to be exact, not that I'm counting…well, maybe I am, but
that's going to stop as of today.
Michael has his new life and I have mine. I've heard that
living well is the best revenge. Good, because that's what
I intend to do. I'm going to live my life as a successful,
happy (or at least, contented) single woman and mother.
This is my vow. I will no longer expect another person to
provide me with a sense of worth. I don't need a husband
to make me feel complete. It's been a struggle to let go
of the marriage, but holding on to all that pain and anger
is getting me nowhere. I'm sick of the pettiness, sick of
fighting and sick to death of the resentment, the
bitterness. I just never thought anything like this could
possibly happen to Michael and me.
I saw divorce mow down marriages all around us, but I
somehow thought we were safe….
It didn't help any that I ran into Marilyn Cody over the
Christmas holidays. She hadn't heard about the divorce,
and when I told her my husband had left me for a twenty-
year-old — correction, my ex-husband (I still have trouble
remembering that) — I could see how shocked she was. Then,
apparently thinking she was giving me good advice, Marilyn
suggested I find myself a boy toy (or is it toy boy?) to
get my confidence back. She was actually serious, as
though going to bed with a man only a few years older than
my own children would make me feel better. Marilyn is a
good example of why I can't remain friends with the people
Michael and I once associated with.
Losing Marilyn as a friend is no great loss, anyway. I
read the pitying look in her eyes, and I didn't miss her
innuendo that I could've kept my husband if I hadn't let
myself go. It was all I could do not to get in her face
and defend myself — as though that would prove anything.
As a matter of fact, I happen to weigh within fifteen
pounds of what I did at twenty-five, and damn it all, I
take care of myself. If anyone's suffering from middle-age
spread, it's Michael. The audacity of Marilyn to imply
that Michael's affair is somehow my fault!
How the hell was I supposed to compete with a girl barely
out of her teens? I couldn't. I didn't. Every time I think
about the two of them together, I feel sick to my stomach.
The journal-writing class has helped. So did meeting Liz,
Julia and Karen. They're my friends, and part of my new
life. Forming a solid relationship with each of these
women is one of the positive changes I've made. As the
saying goes, "Out with the old and in with the new." I'm
glad the four of us have decided to continue seeing each
other, even though the class isn't being offered again.
Thursdays for breakfast was an inspired idea.
Writing down my thoughts is the only way I got through the
last six months. This should be a good time in my life.
Instead, I've been forced to start over — not my choice
and not my fault! Okay, fine. I can deal with it. I am
dealing with it, each and every day. I hate it. I hate
Michael, although I'm trying not to. The best I can say at
this point is that I'm coping.
I will admit one thing. Michael's affair has taught me a
lot about myself. I hadn't realized I could truly hate
anyone. Now I know how deep my anger can cut…and I wish to
hell I didn't.
My mistake — and I made a few — was in delaying the
divorce as long as I did. Eternal optimist that I am, I
clung to the belief that, given time, Michael would come
to his senses. I was convinced that eventually he'd see
how much he was hurting me and the boys. An affair with a
twenty-year-old was sheer madness. Surely he'd wake up one
morning and realize he'd destroyed his entire life — and
for what? Good sex? I doubt she's that incredible in the
sack.
In retrospect, I could kick myself for waiting so many
months to see an attorney. I merely postponed the
inevitable, because I was so sure he'd admit what he was
doing and put an end to it. How I prayed, how I longed for
the opportunity to save my marriage. If only Michael would
come home again. If only he'd give us another chance.
Little did I understand that his actions had utterly
destroyed the foundation of our lives together. The minute
he told me he'd fallen in love with Miranda (sure he
had!), I should've hightailed it into a lawyer's office
and set the divorce in motion. Doing that would have saved
me a lot of grief.
At a particularly low point, when I was feeling absolutely
desperate, I signed up for counseling. The irony didn't
escape me, even then. I wasn't the one defiling our
wedding vows, yet I was the one making appointments with a
shrink!
Then, on a particular Thursday morning about a year and a
half ago, I got up after another restless, miserable,
lonely night. I remember leaning against the bathroom sink
in such emotional pain I couldn't even stand upright. I
looked at myself in the mirror and barely recognized my
own face. Something happened in those moments. Nothing I
can precisely identify, but the experience changed me. The
victim disappeared and there I stood, straight and tall,
glaring back at my reflection, determined to survive.
Michael might want to kill our marriage, but he wouldn't
kill me in the process. In retrospect, I realize that was
when I'd reached my limit.
I got dressed and marched myself right down to Lillian
Case's office. If there's anything to smile about
regarding this ugly divorce, it's the misery Lillian put
Michael through. Michael repeatedly claimed he wanted a
friendly divorce, but as Lillian said, it was far too late
for that.
The boys still aren't speaking to him. I'm not sure Mick
ever will. Alex was always close to his father, and I know
he misses Michael. We don't talk about him. I wish we
could, but nothing I can say is going to take away the
pain of having their father walk out the door. What
Michael failed to understand was that in leaving me, he
abandoned his children, too. He didn't just betray me. He
broke faith with us all.
I probably should have figured out what was happening —
that was what Marilyn seemed to insinuate. I did suspect
something was wrong, but never, ever would I have guessed
this. I thought maybe a midlife crisis or boredom with our
marriage. Maybe that was how he felt; maybe it's why he
did what he did. But he should've been honest with me
about his feelings — not had an affair. Bad enough that my
husband screwed another woman, but a friend's daughter?
I can only imagine what Carl would think if he were alive.
It's all so crazy. Just a few years ago, Michael and I
attended the party Kathy and Carl threw for Miranda's high-
school graduation. Our top car salesman keels over from a
heart attack and Michael, being a caring friend and
business-owner, helps the grieving widow with the funeral
arrangements and the insurance paperwork. Even crazier is
the fact that I actually suggested it.
My one concern at the time was that Michael might be
getting too close to the widow. Only it wasn't Kathy
keeping my husband entertained all those nights. It was
her twenty-year-old daughter. I don't think Kathy or I
will ever get over the shock of it.
Michael still doesn't fully appreciate the consequences of
what he's done. He sincerely believed that once we were
divorced, everything would return to normal between him
and his sons. Mick set him straight on that score. Alex,
too. I know Michael hasn't stopped trying, but the boys
won't be so easily won over. I've done my best to stay out
of it. Nothing will ever change the fact that he's their
father; how they choose to deal with him is up to them. I
refuse to encourage either boy to forgive and forget, but
I won't hold them back from a relationship with Michael,
either. The choice is theirs.
Twenty-three years of marriage and I never looked at
another man. Damn it all, I was a faithful, loving wife. I
could have tolerated an affair if he'd given it up and
returned to our marriage. But, no, he —
Okay, enough. I don't need to keep repeating the same gory
details. As I said, this is a fresh start, the first day
of a new year. I'm giving myself permission to move on, as
my psycho-babbling counselor used to put it.
Part of moving on is belonging to the breakfast group —
and continuing to write in my journal. Liz suggested we
each pick a word for the year. A word. I haven't quite
figured out why, let alone which word would best suit me.
We're all supposed to have our words chosen before we meet
next Thursday morning at Mocha Moments.
I've toyed with the idea of beginnings, as in new
beginnings, but I don't want to carry that theme around
with me for the next twelve months. At some point,
beginnings have to become middles and potential has to be
realized. I guess I'm afraid I won't be as successful as I
want to be.
What I really need to do is discover who I am, now that
I'm single again. For twenty-three years my identity was
linked to Michael. We were a team, complementing each
other's strengths and weaknesses. I was always better with
finances and Michael was the people person. He took a part-
time job selling cars the first year we were married in
order to supplement our budget, and quickly became the top
salesman. His degree was in ecology and he had a day job
at the town planning office but made three times the money
selling cars. Soon he was working full-time at the
dealership and I was stretching every dollar he made,
creating a small nest-egg.
Then we had the chance to buy the Chevrolet deal-ership —
the opportunity of a lifetime. We scraped together every
penny we could. By the time the paperwork was finished, we
didn't have a cent between us, but we were happy. That was
when we —
I can't write about that, don't want to dwell on how happy
we were in those early years. Whenever I think about it, I
feel overwhelmed by the pain of loss and regret. So much
regret…
Word. I need a word. Not memories. I can't tie my new
identity to the past and to who I was; I've got to look
toward the future. So I need a word that fits who I am
today, the woman I'm becoming. The woman I want to be.
Just a minute here. Just a damn minute! Who I was, who I
want to be. Why do I have to change? There's nothing wrong
with me! I wasn't the one who ripped the heart out of this
family. I was a good wife, a good mother. I was faithful…
FAITHFUL.
That's it. My word. Not beginnings, not discovery, but
faithful. From the moment I spoke my vows I was faithful
to my husband, my marriage, my family. All these years
I've been faithful to myself; I've never acted dishonestly
and I've always put my family responsibilities above my
own desires. I don't need to find myself. I found out who
I am a long time ago and frankly I happen to like that
person. I wasn't the one who changed; Michael did.
This feels good. The burden isn't on my shoulders to prove
one damn thing. I'll remain faithful to me.
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