After my divorce, I genuinely believed my life was over.
That may sound dramatic, but at 45, drama was the last thing I had energy for.
I was simply tired.
Tired of explaining why my marriage had failed. Tired of smiling when people said, “You’ll find someone better,” like love was a sweater I could replace if I found the right store.
I had been married for 19 years. Nineteen years of packing lunches, folding shirts, remembering birthdays, paying bills, and believing I was building something safe. Then one day, my husband looked at me across our kitchen table and told me he was “done pretending.”
His words did not explode.
They sank.