A short Detour

The day my husband told me he wanted a separation was a Sunday evening—June 2, 2019. There was nothing remarkable about that day. We’d had a small argument, about me reading while he was driving. On the surface, it seemed trivial, but, as with many things, it wasn’t about the argument itself. It was the ripple effect of something deeper, something earlier in the day. The details aren’t mine to share, but suffice it to say, tensions were already high. We got home, barely speaking for two hours. Then, it happened. My husband sat me down and suggested we go to therapy—marriage counseling, to be exact. I agreed. We both knew we needed help. We were unhappy. Our marriage was hanging by a thread, suffocating under the weight of our shared misery. I stood up, ready to start the search for a therapist, but something hit me. Why was I the one who had to find help? Why couldn’t we do this together? I voiced my concern, and his response was... calm. Almost relieved. “Never mind,” he said. And just like that, I knew. It was over. This was the moment—the moment he decided we weren’t worth saving. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I cried, for hours. I’m still not sure what hurt most—was it losing him? Losing our family? Or the realization that all the dreams I had for us, for our child, might never come true? The next day, on my one-hour unpaid break from a job I love to hate, I typed into Google, “My husband wants a divorce.” The advice was straightforward: don’t act like a desperate, bitter, vindictive fool. Start living for yourself, but don’t give up on your marriage just yet. Try to understand his perspective. Reflect. It’s been a week now. A week filled with tears, sadness, hope, and moments of complete emptiness. I’m terrified. I don’t know how to live without him. He’s been my safe place for so long. But still, I’m trying. I’ll go to that party alone. I’ll take walks by myself. I’ll start doing things just for me. Update: Six months have passed since that dreadful day. What’s changed? Not much, and yet, everything. I’m still with my husband. A week after that conversation, I told him I wouldn’t force him to stay. Seventeen years ago, he walked into that little video store and chose me, of his own free will. He can stay or leave the same way—freely. I stayed calm, even though my nights were filled with worry and tears. I started planning for a future on my own, while still showing him love and reminding him of the family we built together. Six months later, we’re still here. Still together, still married, and most days, still happy. We argue, but we make up. Our marriage isn’t perfect, but it’s good more often than not. As for the future? I don’t know. I can’t pretend to know what’s next. But whatever it is, I trust we’ll be okay. Our kids will be okay. Oh, and yes—I said kids because in four months, we’ll welcome another child into this world. Born into love, and sometimes chaos.