I Was Sixty-Five When My Marriage Ended
I am sixty-five years old now.
Five years ago, after nearly four decades of marriage, my husband walked out of my life.
We were married for thirty-seven years. Long enough to build routines, shared memories, quiet habits that settle into your bones. Long enough that you forget who you were before you became “us.”
When the divorce was finalized at a family courthouse in Sacramento, my former husband, Howard, stood across from me with his hands folded neatly in front of him. He looked calm. Too calm.
Before turning away, he placed a small envelope in my hand.
“There’s three thousand dollars on this card,” he said evenly.
“It should help you get by for a while.”
That was it.
Thirty-seven years reduced to a plastic card and a polite sentence.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain.
He simply turned and walked out of the building without looking back.
I stood there alone, the envelope shaking in my fingers, my chest tight as if the air had been pulled from the room.The Card I Couldn’t Bring Myself to Use
I never touched that card.
Not because I didn’t need the money.
But because it felt like accepting pity.
I went home to a small rented room on the edge of the city. The walls were thin. The heater barely worked. In winter, the cold crept into my bones. In summer, the air felt heavy and stale.
I survived however I could.
I cleaned offices at night. Watched parked cars for tips during weekend events. Collected bottles and cans early in the morning before the streets filled.
Some days I ate once. Some days not at all.
There were nights when hunger curled inside my stomach so tightly that sleep felt impossible.
And still, I never used that card.
It sat in the back of a drawer, wrapped in a piece of cloth, like something sharp I didn’t dare touch.
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