It’s been a year now since I determined I could not go on living with my husband, Ed. While he was the first one to bring up the D-word, he is also the one who does not want to get divorced.
Once I finally got him out of the house (my house, thank you very much; I bought it a few years before we married), I devoted myself to scrambling for money to keep body, soul, and animal family together.
I soon realized that divorce, with its lawyers and fees, was a luxury. And Ed, never a financial genius, said he didn’t have the funds either.
He did email me a proposed settlement agreement; I think he found a template on the Internet.
We have no kids and my lawyer tells me our pets are considered chattel (I’m sorry; anybody who looks to me for food and shelter and doesn’t work is a dependent).
I wasn’t seeking alimony and he wasn’t planning to battle over the house. Still, like any good divorcing couple, we managed to oppose each other.
I wanted to keep the health insurance he got through work, at least for a while; he would not sign a quitclaim deed formally relinquishing any interest in the house, until the divorce was final.
I was more concerned about the health insurance. I could keep that by just keeping quiet, so I did.
But after I tapped my retirement account to cover all the things I hadn’t earned earning enough to handle, I remembered that I’d also meant to get divorced.
I got out of bed in the middle of the night and emailed Ed, asking how he thought we should go forward.
Then it was his turn to keep quiet.
Weeks passed without a word from him.
I felt I’d done my part for the present, but my therapist thought I was procrastinating.
Imagine.
I said I’d get in touch with Ed, ask what he wanted to do. “Why are you giving this back to him?!” she demanded.
I thought about it briefly before replying.
“Habit.”
After months without Edgar, I am still in the habit of being married to him.
I hope filing for divorce will nurture the healthier custom of taking care of myself.
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