As I leaned against the doorway of our living room after putting the kids to bed, I mustered the courage to ask my husband, “Do you have a moment?” My heart raced, but I kept that to myself. The recent divorce of friends after 14 years had stirred up a whirlwind of thoughts about our own marriage.
I didn’t even wait for his reply. I dove right into my feelings, rating our relationship a solid B—maybe even a B+ if I was feeling generous. We were good friends, had three wonderful kids, and rarely argued about important things like finances or intimacy. I believed we could elevate our grade to an A with just a few minor adjustments.
“I feel overwhelmed managing our finances alone. It makes me anxious to think about what would happen if something were to happen to me. I’d love for us to tackle this together,” I suggested. I continued, “Let’s try an activity just for us, something that has nothing to do with the kids—like dance lessons or volunteering.” I was open to anything.
He barely looked up from his tablet, but I held onto hope. I waited, expecting some form of agreement. Instead, he simply said, “No.”
I chuckled, convinced he was joking. “No? To what part?”
“To all of it. I’m tired of changing to make you happy. You knew who I was when you married me. That should be enough.”
His words hit me like a brick. I had always been the one seeking change, while he quietly resisted. This wasn’t just another argument; it was a clear declaration of his position.
I turned away, trying to regain my composure as I tidied up the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, I climbed into bed, feeling more alone than ever.
The following week, I sought counseling and explained that my husband was unwilling to work on our relationship. I wanted to learn how to change his mind. My therapist gently reminded me, “That’s not how this works. He’s either in this or he’s not. Until then, let’s focus on what you can control.”
In the weeks that followed, my husband remained steadfast. He had repeatedly told me he wouldn’t change, and the partnership I envisioned didn’t align with his desires. I realized that I could either accept his decision and stay or reject it and move on. I chose the latter.
Terrible days ensued—days when I would find myself doubled over in the frozen food aisle, panicking at the thought of losing my best friend. We had to break the news to our children, who responded with pain that still lingers in my memory. But the reality remained: we wanted different things and couldn’t achieve them together.
We divorced.
Reflecting on that night and our marriage, I see things more clearly now. I realize how absurd it was to grade our relationship and draft a performance improvement plan without considering his perspective. I had been more of a manager than a partner, and his refusal to change spoke volumes about the resentment that had built up over time.
Now, we are better parents apart than we ever were together. The resentment tied to our roles has dissipated, and our communication is healthier. Our children sometimes question the divorce, as they see us enjoying casual conversations about movies or new restaurants.
Our daughter, Sophie, often asks why we aren’t together, feeling the complexities of our separate lives. I tell her the truth: her dad and I are good friends, but we were not good partners. The divorce, though painful, allowed us to set necessary boundaries, leading us each to forge our paths as parents while freeing ourselves from the toxic patterns we had created.
In the end, separating liberated us from the constant push and pull of our relationship, allowing us to reconnect as friends without the burdens of our past.
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