I packed his bag with love. I included his favorite books, a journal, and a note telling him I believed in him.
“I just need time, Sarah,” he had said, looking lost and vulnerable. “I need to figure out who I am outside of ‘us.'”
He asked for a 3-month separation to “find himself.”.
It sounded noble. It sounded necessary. I agreed, wanting to be supportive. I thought I was being the wife of the century, giving him the space to grow so he could come back to me whole.
I treated the separation like a spiritual retreat for our marriage. I worked on myself. I went to therapy. I went to the gym, read books, and became the best version of myself, ready to welcome him back with open arms. I marked the days on the calendar with little hearts, counting down to our reunion.
The ninetieth day arrived. I put on my best dress. I cooked a celebratory dinner. My heart fluttered as I picked up the phone to coordinate his homecoming.
I dialed his number. It didn’t ring. It went straight to a disconnect tone. I tried again. Nothing. I tried texting. Delivered not supported.
When I called him at the 3-month mark to meet up, he blocked my number.
I stood in the kitchen, confused and terrified. Was he hurt? Was he in trouble?
The answer came the next morning, not from him, but from a stranger with a clipped, professional voice.
His lawyer called me the next day.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” the lawyer said. “We represent your husband in the matter of the divorce petition filed this morning.”
“Divorce?” I choked out. “No, he’s just… finding himself.”
Then came the second blow, the one that revealed the true depth of his malice. When I went to check our joint accounts to pay the retainer for my own lawyer, the balance was zero. The savings. The retirement. The emergency fund. Gone.
The “break” was just a head start so he could move his assets before I knew what was happening.
While I was reading self-help books and praying for his soul, he was meeting with accountants and wire-transferring our life savings into offshore accounts I couldn’t touch. He hadn’t needed space to find himself; he needed time to hide the money. I had given him a ninety-day lead in a race I didn’t even know we were running, and by the time the starting gun finally fired for me, he was already at the finish line, laughing.
