When I explained that David had become controlling, that he’d filed for divorce over a single argument, she listened with growing skepticism.
Even my closest friends from college seemed to question my version of events.
They knew me well enough to recognize when I was being less than completely honest.
And my inability to explain exactly what had caused David to file for divorce made me seem defensive and evasive.
The isolation was crushing.
I’d built my entire adult social life around being David’s wife, and now that identity was gone.
I moved into a studio apartment across town, a cramped space that cost nearly as much as my share of the house David and I had rented together.
Every morning I woke up in that unfamiliar space, I was reminded of what I’d lost through my own actions.
The coffee maker had been a wedding gift, the throw pillows I’d chosen for our living room, the framed photos of happier times that now felt like artifacts from someone else’s life.
