That’s what I saw when I pulled up in front of my pristine suburban house: my home, with its infrared sauna, hot tub, travertine tile flooring, copper pots and gourmet kitchen; my sanctuary, surrounded by lush gardens filled with organic vegetable beds, where I lived with my husband and our cats.
My time had been filled with book club meetings, yoga classes, and board game nights with the neighbours. I had monthly facials, massages, and bi-weekly mani-pedi appointments at swanky salons. My highlighted hair was perfectly maintained and my closet was filled with chic outfits purchased at posh shops.
Huge piles of contractor bags spilled all over the sidewalk. When I hopped out of the car, I realised that all of my personal belongings had been thrown away. I saw my high school yearbook, photo albums, jewelry, clothing, and my books poking through garbage bags.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
A few weeks prior, I’d told my husband that I wanted a separation. He became extremely upset and threatened to kill himself, telling me he was going to throw himself down a flight of stairs. I didn’t know what to do.
(The Mamamia team reveal the deal breakers that ended their past relationships. Post continues after video.)
He was a practical and intelligent man. Yet, here we were, 11 years into our marriage and I didn’t recognise him anymore.
Our relationship had fallen apart after infidelities and an unsuccessful stint with counseling. He was depressed, emotionally abusive and I didn’t want to waste another day of my life.
There was no going back for us. I rushed the divorce, not fighting him on anything. I just wanted out.