My name is Martha. I’m forty-seven years old.
Two years ago, I thought my life was over.
Not in the dramatic way people say those words when they are disappointed or angry. I mean I genuinely believed that the life I had spent twenty-one years building had disappeared in a single afternoon.
My husband, Daniel, ended our marriage with a calmness that hurt more than shouting would have.
He had already moved money.
He had already spoken to a lawyer.
He had already decided which accounts would remain in his name, which belongings he wanted, and which parts of our old life he was willing to leave behind.
I had none of those things planned.
I had spent twenty-one years believing we were a team.
Daniel handled the finances.
I handled the house, Lily, school, appointments, groceries, birthdays, family gatherings, and everything else that somehow became invisible because it was done every day.
