Last night my husband told me he wasn’t in love with me but he thought he was in love with his girlfriend. We both went to bed angry and hurt and haven’t spoken much since.
This may sound awful but familiar… after all, marriages end all the time. But the truth is I have known about his girlfriend since February. I have known he has wanted a divorce since November.
He moved out at the very beginning of March – only for the worldwide pandemic to hit immediately after.
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It played out as the perfect, chaotic-but-distant backdrop to the cycle of emotional decimation and resilience that was separating from my husband of 20 years, supporting our children through it, starting a new part-time job, consulting lawyers and keeping my stress levels as low as possible because I also happen to have been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis two years ago.
I was finally on an even keel emotionally. With medication and support from a psychologist, distraction at work, emotional and wine-filled circling from my girlfriends far and wide and lots of at-distant communication in bite-size chunks with my ex, I was accepting.
That he had lied to me for the last time and that he wasn’t the right person to spend the rest of my days with, that I was facing the end of my happily ever after.
That he was better off with the interstate girlfriend who was giving up her entire life to move in with a married man she met on a dating app. He was to be her problem, him and his infidelities. I was getting stronger.
But by Easter, my husband had moved back in. Economic hardships, homeschooling and my dodgy immune system meant it made the most sense for our family unit. The psychologists had told me to tell the kids that we will always be a family of four.