Thirteen years

Thirteen years, two months and nineteen days. That is the exact amount of time it took for things to go from perfect to over. Hell, if you want, I could even tell you how many hours and minutes it took too.

Well, sort of. I mean, when things break down, there is no "exact beginning" to the breakdown. There are a million times that things could turn around and get better. In fact, maybe they did. But then the next few things went worse. There's also no real end to a situation like this. It just drags on and on and on. However, I am going to define the end as the day that I said "I'm leaving." I'd say that sounds like an end.

To be honest, things faded into nothingness. It was a day by day process, as small things happened to push us away from each other more and more. But I didn't really notice it happening. It creeped up on me, and hit me out of nowhere.

It was a Wednesday, and I had just gotten home from work. I was sitting at the dining table deciding what to make for dinner, when my husband, Brock, started putting on his boots.

"Where ya going?" I asked, poking my head around the wall to peer at him in the doorway.

"Going out riding, and then drinkin' with the boys." He didn't even look up from his boots. He finished tying them up and walked out the door.

It sounds absurd, I know, but that was the moment I knew things were over. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach as I started doing the math in my head, considering the last few weeks, months, even years, and as a couple of common themes came to light.

First of all, we didn't have any mutual friends anymore. I didn't even know who "the boys" were. And none of my girlfriends had ever had a conversation with Brock.

Second of all, we had no common interests. We used to do things together, but now all he does is ride his motorcycle and drink, and I have no interest in either. It's not all his fault, I'd developed some hobbies of my own. It's not just free time, though. Over the last few months, he'd been going on bike trips, gone for a day, sometimes three, and I'd just stay at home without him. It didn't bother me, but maybe it should have.

The next problem was that we didn't have conversations anymore. He used to ask what I was reading, and now he just grunts when he sees me glued to a book. I used to wander out to the garage and chat while he worked on his bike, but I haven't in months.

It's like somewhere down the line, we had turned into roommates with the same last name.

To be honest, we hardly ever slept in the same room. It was just easier that way. When he stumbled in late and drunk, he passed out in the guest room. It wasn't planned or discussed, but he had started moving most of his clothes into the guest closet over the summer. He'd been waking earlier than I, and he didn't want to disturb me by getting dressed. Thoughtful, yes, but it just marked yet another division between us.

I spent the rest of the evening thinking about it. I weighed the pros and cons. I considered the good things he brought to my life, and the bad. I thought about what I would do if I moved out. I thought about what he would do if I kicked him out. As a newlywed all those years ago, I never would have thought that I'd be sitting here thinking this, but it seemed so casual now.

The next night he was out again, so my closest friend, Lana, came over and we opened a bottle of wine. I told her what I was thinking about, and why. I laid it all on her.

I'll probably never forget how she squinted up her eyes, and chewed slowly, obviously thinking carefully. She swallowed and then said, "I think you should leave him." It only took as long as it takes to chew a pretzel for her to decide.

This coming from Lana, mom of three, then aged eleven, seven and four, who had once called, sobbing and in hysterics because her husband wasn't home and it was getting late. The very idea of him leaving her paralyzed her, and she couldn't fathom leaving him. But then, they were still in love (or so I presumed) and they had kids to worry about. At the very least, that gave them something in common.

Brock and I, we only had two dogs. They were our fur-babies, but they certainly didn't bring us any closer together.

I spent the next couple days mulling over it, and planning things out. I realized that I didn't want to live in that town anymore. Sure, I had friends there, but I moved there for Brock, and I stayed there for Brock. The second I was on my own, I would want out. I made a list of places I wanted to live, and started job- and house-hunting in those areas.

It took me a week and a half to tell him, but the following Friday, I came home from work and cornered him.

"Brock? I need to tell you something."

"What?"

"I'm leaving."

"What?" I think normally he would have said, 'Have a good night', but something in my tone stopped him.

"I'm moving out. I'm leaving." I took a deep breath. The next was the hardest bit. "I want a divorce."

"Oh." He put down his phone and actually looked at me. He studied me for a few seconds, and then asked, "Why?"

We spent the rest of the night talking. Neither of us were angry. I think we both felt a little burnt-out, maybe deflated, but there was no anger. We discussed logistics, such as who gets the house, the dogs, the furniture. I told him I wanted to leave the city, and he was fine with that.

There was a lot of sadness that night, but it was deep kind of sadness. There were no tears, only this heart-ache feeling that something once dreamt about was over.

I stayed in the house for another week, while I found a divorce lawyer, finished up at my job, and packed all of my belongings. The following Saturday, I loaded my car and drove to eight hours to my new place. I'd found a decently-priced apartment in a new city that would let me rent month-to-month. It didn't need to be great, just a roof over my head while I found my bearings.



It's been three months since then. I have a new job, a new place, and I am officially single. The divorce process was a lot less ugly than usual. We were both pretty good about it. We agreed what items he should keep, and what I should. He kept the house, the dogs, the truck and the motorcycle, while I only took my car and what would fit inside of it, so the lawyers had him cut me a cheque. It's not something I wanted or needed, but he said I deserved it, and it would help get me on my feet. Most of that money is still in a savings account.

Honestly, I'm happier. It's not that we were fighting or that I was miserable, but I just feel free now. Like there used to be a weight strapped to my ankle and I took it off. I know he's doing great too. Well, he's doing the same as before. Riding his bike, drinking with the boys. But now he doesn't have to worry about keeping me up or waking me.

I miss my dogs. I wish I could have kept them, but I still in a place that isn't pet-friendly.

Isn't it sad when you leave a marriage of thirteen years and the thing you miss the most is your dogs?