The Aftermath
The Bomb Dropped
There’s just something so FUCKED about the aftermath.
It’s not just the shock of it all—it’s the shitty, grinding devastation that follows.
The minutiae of life that you totally take for granted when you’re married—things like the bills, the health insurance, the vehicles, the taxes, the rent or the mortgage.
One day, you’re a power couple. A dynamic team. A family building a future.
And the next?
You’re picking up the shattered pieces because your husband decided to walk in and detonate a whole-ass bomb in the middle of your living room—blowing up your marriage, your life, and your child’s entire world.
He wanted a divorce.
And for some reason, he was fast-tracking it.
The Cruel Confusion
I had no idea he was involved with anyone.
I had my suspicions months back, but I truly thought:
There’s no way he’d do that. Not to us. Not to our kids. Not after everything we’d been through.
We’d made it through so much—his military career, the deployments, the strain, the missed birthdays, the emotional whiplash.
I was the one holding it down on the homefront while he served.
I wasn’t naive. I wasn’t gullible. I just had faith—too much, maybe—in the man I loved. The man I believed was in it for the long haul.
The same man I held while he sobbed on the floor in the middle of an anxiety attack.
The man I soothed when his nightmares left him shaking and soaked in sweat.
And now? That man was gone.
In his place was someone cold, cruel, cocky.
Someone distant, arrogant, acting like he suddenly had all the answers.
And now I know why.
One Foot Out, One Foot Still Here
He wasn’t just divorcing me.
He was also controlling me—trying to force me to stay local, denying me the chance to move closer to our other kids or my support system. My family—the very people who were holding me upright when I could barely breathe.
And it didn’t make sense.
He didn’t want me.
He said it over and over.
Yet he didn’t want me to leave either. Why?
If I wasn’t what he wanted, why did it matter where I went?
He was a good dad – when he was present, but I’d been the default parent for years.
Through deployments. Mental health crises. Sick kids. School meetings. Holidays. Meltdowns.
I was Mom and Dad.
And he was “Dad” when it suited him.
I was scrambling to figure out how I was going to do this alone—while he was off doing God knows what with God knows who.
I couldn’t even think about that.
All I knew was: he wanted out.
And I was left holding the bag.
“I was lost, confused, and so very broken.
This was not my husband anymore.”
Safety Net or Emotional Crutch?
That first week of separation?
He was at the house every single day.
Yard work.
Mail.
Some excuse to “check in.”
But it was obvious: the facade was cracking, and I saw it.
I know this man. I’ve known him for almost 20 years.
I saw the unraveling before he did.
And one night, via text, he admitted the anxiety attacks were back.
I encouraged him to stay on his meds—but I wasn’t there to help him manage those episodes. I wasn’t there to talk him down. That was his choice.
He thought he could white-knuckle his way through it all.
But I knew what happened the last time he tried that—complete collapse and a trip to the ER.
He needed me.
Not as a wife.
But as a safety net.
He didn’t want me, but he wanted me close. Just in case.
What a mindfuck.
The Lawyer, The Lies, and the Breakdown
I kept asking him:
“What is your hurry? Why do you want to get a divorce so fucking fast?”
Couldn’t we try counseling?
We’d already been through so much. I was already in individual therapy—barely staying afloat.
That therapy saved me from cracking.
That and the fact that I couldn’t fall apart—because if I did, I knew he’d swoop in and call me an “unfit mother.”
And then?
The final blow:
He had already met with an attorney.
He paid the retainer.
A few days after moving out, he made it official.
All this time, I thought he just “needed space.”
I thought maybe, maybe there was a chance.
I didn’t know the end had already been scheduled.
“This is the aftermath. The shit no one talks about. The trauma that sears into your DNA.”
When the Body Remembers
That first week?
Pure hell.
I lost time.
I couldn’t sleep.
I couldn’t eat.
I lost 20 pounds in a month.
I looked like hell.
I felt worse.
I laid in bed, sobbing, sure that I was literally dying. That my heart was breaking in half—physically.
I prayed to God every single day:
“Lord, just help me get through the next hour.
Not the day. The hour.”
Even now—13 years later—when I drive by the street where my old house was, I feel the panic crawl into my chest. My body remembers. My cells remember. My soul remembers.
She Didn’t Break
When I think back to her—the woman I was during that time—I feel sad for her.
She didn’t know what was coming.
She didn’t know how much strength she had.
She didn’t know that she’d still show up, day after day, despite everything.
She ate the shit sandwich every single day.
She endured the cruel remarks.
The manipulation.
The emotional torture.
And she didn’t break.
She braved the storm.
She showed up anyway.
Because people were depending on her.
And she did not break.