My husband, Zack, was utterly stunned when, on our thirtieth anniversary—just two weeks after our youngest child moved out—I asked for a divorce. To him, everything had been perfect. To me, the cracks had long been too deep to ignore.
He looked at me in disbelief. “You’re divorcing me?” he murmured, eyes filled with hurt. “But… I’ve never cheated. I never drank or gambled. I loved you!”
I didn’t deny it. And that was exactly the problem. Amid study sessions, late nights, illness, loss, and emotional upheaval—I had stood alone while he watched TV, oblivious.
When I was near collapse—physically or emotionally—he did nothing. When I asked for help, for affection, for just a speck of recognition, he did… nothing. No flowers, no love, no listening. I had even pleaded for marriage counseling five years earlier. He refused, insisting everything was fine.
Now, as he desperately offered to go to therapy, I felt nothing but sorrow. I responded without anger: “At any moment in the last thirty years, I would have given everything to hear those words. But now… I’m not wasting another day on you.”
He begged. I shook my head. The next day, I packed my things and moved to a charming apartment in Venice Beach. I sold my car and began biking everywhere—everywhere but backward.
News spread quickly. Our oldest daughter, Amy, was floored—and told me her father had spiraled into depression and begun therapy. My heart ached for him, but my relief was overwhelming: I finally prioritized my well-being.
