The Death of a Marriage

The glance lasted maybe a few seconds. But, the softness of his gaze told me all I needed to know. We were “exchanging the children” as I like to call the process, something we have done close to 15 times in the three years since I threw the kids in the car and headed off for the unknown leaving everything I took for granted behind me. Since then, I’ve grown, changed. I’m happier and healthier; the children are healthier and happier. Maybe he is as well. Still, despite all the time, pain, and separation, he loves me. 

Let’s be clear here. The marriage was irretrievably broken. I was damaged beyond recovery and nothing could have rescued us. I know this. I also know that my children are joyful and relaxed in ways they never could have been when we were all living together in that endless twilight of a dead marriage. They deserved a mother who wasn’t half paralyzed by depression and a crushed spirit. They deserved a home without discord and unspoken anger. I did what was necessary, and in my moments of clarity I realize how much better I am, how much happier they are, and no matter how much struggle we have had in the last three years, the end of that marriage was a blessing. Admittedly, I go through long stretches where I don’t think about him at all; where he exists only in the dim recesses of a memory, pushed aside by the daily challenges and joys of a life as a (mostly) single mom.

But there are moments. Sometimes a song, perhaps one we used to listen to on his fold out bed in that crappy Philadelphia apartment where we would fall asleep in a tangle of blankets and awake to the sounds of the neighbor’s trashy garage band that always seemed to practice way too early on a Sunday morning. Or maybe taking the children to the Grand Canyon where the view not only reminds me of the grandeur of G-d, but also of that trip he and I took on Christmas Eve where we hiked to the bottom and out while I was 8 weeks pregnant with my first child. Or a glance, that fills me simultaneously with regret, and guilt, and flooded with memory of a marriage that began with such hope and promise on a hot, sunny day in June, and ended in such desperation on an equally hot day 14 years later in April. 

I want to know if there will be a time when I can drive through the places we used to go, or see the house where my oldest was born, and not be overwhelmed with equal parts memory and pain. Will there come a time when I don’t spend moments for the week or two after seeing him, gripped with regret, the tears freely flowing. When will I release the guilt from realizing that to survive, I had to damage the man whom I had promised to love “till death do we part”.