The lawyer asked me whether I wanted to pursue a divorce.
I sat in her office for a long time.
Forty-one years.
It was not a small thing to walk away from.
We had built a farm.
Raised three children.
Paid off a mortgage.
Survived illness, grief, and countless ordinary days.
I still remembered the young man I had married.
The way he used to hold my hand at the county fair.
The way he kissed me before leaving for work.
The way he had carried our youngest daughter into the house when she was sick.
I could not pretend those memories were meaningless.
But I also could not pretend the last thirteen years had been honest.
The lawyer asked gently.
“Muriel, do you believe you can trust him again?”
I looked out the window.
“No.”
“Do you want to try?”
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
The answer came quietly.
But it was certain.
I filed for divorce.
Jim didn’t fight me.
He agreed to the legal process.
The farm, our savings, the house, and the retirement accounts were reviewed carefully. Our lawyer made sure that the division followed the applicable law and that I understood every document I signed.
I didn’t take everything.
I didn’t try to ruin him.
I simply refused to carry the financial burden of a life he had hidden from me.
For the first time in forty-one years, I made a decision based only on what I needed.
And it felt like breathing after being underwater.
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