There is a certain level of pain a woman must be in to take her husband’s phone from its charger and carry it into the bathroom at one a.m.
There’s another level, unknown to most women, to take that phone downstairs, hands shaking, and call
“Do you think he’s cheating?”
That’s the first question every woman asks.
My lawyer, my cousin, my friend’s sister walking me through the divorce process.
No, I say. I am sure of this.
They feel too bad for me to question further,
It began as a thought. The kind that flits through your mind like a moth, landing lightly before disappearing. Only this one stayed. It drifted from brain to throat, emerging as a joke:
“If I sell this book,” I said. “I’m buying a Porsche.”
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There is an energy needed to write. I’m not talking about physical or mental energy. I’m talking about energy from somewhere deep inside that propels you to dispel the noise, the consequences, the point… and do it.
Somewhere along the way, I’ve exhausted
I’m sorry for the delay. I thought sending my proposal out would give me more time to write. Instead, it’s given me more time to think—which is far worse.
Lately I’m spinning between wondering if I’m getting divorced, pining for
My husband has always been embarrassed by me. If I’m honest, that’s been the through line of our marriage. I’m too much. Out of line. For years, I took this at face value—believing everyone else must see me that way too. Only
On the third day of my involuntary incarceration in Psych Ward 2, my husband finally called.
When I spoke to him, my heart lightened when he said he was proud of me. Happy I was taking this seriously. That he and my children would be waiting for me.
Yet as
