A young courier stood on my doorstep, shifting his weight uncomfortably, clearly uneasy about handing an envelope to a sixty-four-year-old woman in a faded floral apron. I was still holding my first cup of coffee, steam rising lazily from the mug, when he asked for me by name.\u201cCatherine Stevens?\u201dI nodded, not yet sensing the ground about to disappear beneath my feet.He explained, quietly and politely, that he needed my signature to confirm delivery. I glanced down at the words printed in bold at the top of the page and felt something inside me stall, like an engine that suddenly refuses to turn over.
Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.I read it once. Then again. Then a third time\u2014slowly, desperately\u2014before the meaning finally pushed through the shock that had wrapped itself around my mind like heavy fog.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My husband of forty-two years.The father of my three children.The man who had promised to love me until death do us partHe wasn\u2019t asking for space.He wasn\u2019t suggesting counseling.He was divorcing me.\u201cMa\u2019am,\u201d the courier said gently, recognizing the hollow look in my eyes, \u201cI just need your signature here.\u201dMy 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.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\u2014debating whether to make his favorite roast or reserve a table at the restaurant where we\u2019d gone on our first date<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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