The morning my husband asked for a divorce, the world didn’t explode; it went eerily, surgically quiet. His coffee cup still steamed on the counter, his tie still lay folded on the chair, and yet everything familiar had slipped just out of reach, like a room seen through glass. In the days after, I watched our life unspool in paperwork and polite signatures, the word “ours” dissolving into columns and clauses. Friends said I was “handling it well,” as if composure were anything but numbness with lipstick. I thought I understood what I was losing—marriage, holidays, a shared bed—but when I finally carried a bulging folder of statements and passwords into Catherine’s office, I realized I had never really known what I ha… Continues…
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