I wrote the following essay for the BC Council of Families. It was recently published in their magazine, Family Connections, in volume 14, issue 2, Spring 2010. I am reproducing it here, with their permission, because it’s the truth and because, right now, I can’t write anything better to capture my thoughts on divorce.
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An intense rain drummed down from tumultuous, black clouds. My husband and I were arguing again, and it was ugly. His response was flight, mine fight, but he was winning. He quickly reached our garage, car keys in hand, desperate to escape from both storms. I vaguely recall the hum of the electronic garage door inching upwards, focused, as I was, on my desire to not let him go. I was not ready for my marriage to end. Frantic, and with my options limited, I positioned myself bodily between him, now in the driver’s seat of our running SUV, and his escape route. I staked my ground hoping that my stance could convince him of what my pleadings could not: that he needed to stay. A vengeful wind ripped through my hair, long, Medusa-like tentacles encircling my head with the fury of the night while the cold penetrated my clothing. I shivered. Our infant daughter, our Little Miss, was in my arms.