If Your Black Friday Was Just That, Black, Read On


She packed her bags and walked out. She could hear the shower running. He had cried, trying to delay her leaving, but it was too late for that. Too much had happened, or not happened, been said, or not said.

She closed the door and hurried to her car, throwing the suitcase in, so happy he had to go to work. She could slip out, avoid another drawn out scene.

As she backed out of the long, even driveway, she stopped for a moment, tapping the brakes long enough to look at the little brick house.  She had only lived there a year. It was supposed to be their forever house. The one he wanted to abandon when he thought he had found someone better. The one she had almost been hospitalized for, after spending a day unknowingly crawling around in poison ivy in the heat of a southern summer, trying to clean out flower beds. The same house where she had laid on the sofa for 3 weeks unable to eat after he told her he wanted his own apartment, his own space “to figure things out”. She knew what that meant. So she went back to the home she had grown up in. She was only 26 after all.

But all of this was before his girlfriend had been whisked 2000 miles away by her own husband – a man who wasn’t about to roll over and let his marriage go that easily. It was before, when he thought he could have it all, pick and choose whom he wanted. She glanced at the bedroom window. He was looking out. It was bittersweet

And then she let her foot off the brake and looked behind her once more before pulling out of the driveway for good. Dreading the knowledge that it wasn’t for good, good.

She’d have to come back, sooner than she wanted; collect the rest of her furniture, clothes and memories. Wrap up 6.5 years, pack it into cardboard boxes and pretend like it had never happened. But that wasn’t today, thankfully. Today all she could think of was the beautiful silence of the 3 hour drive back to a place she felt loved and protected. 

Does that sound like the beginning of a novel? 

It is my story. The end of my first marriage. Unfortunately, I drove away not understanding the part I had played in the unraveling. I didn’t see how by becoming “something I imagined he wanted” I had become so much less of me. It was a difficult lesson. 

One of the reasons I do what I do is because I have learned, like Edison’s 1000 attempts to create the light bulb, what works and what doesn’t.

Tune in for the rest of the story next Wednesday to learn how I went from that place to living my dreams in France. 

Until then, Bisous!

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