The day I left my husband was like any other sunny spring day in New York City. Except that I woke up with a fever of 103 and violent chills.
It didn’t really matter though. Nothing could have stopped me that day. I was on an escape mission.
“When do you know when it’s time for divorce?” I remember Googling.
When you are Googling divorce. It should have said.
There was no blueprint, no manual for how to leave your marriage of less than a year. I knew people would judge me, but that was no reason to stay. And so, just before my thirtieth birthday I found myself searching for an overpriced Park Avenue divorce attorney.
I had been so terrified of surviving on my own, but it was time to go. I had been secretly saving money for the last six months and I knew I could sell my ring and get money for a deposit on an apartment of my own. I was determined to take no money from Richard. I knew that emotionally it wouldn’t be worth the fight, and I wanted to prove that I no longer needed a thing from him.
I had gotten a safe deposit box to store all of my important documents and booked a hotel down the street in case he kicked me out on the spot and I needed a place to stay. I had even packed an emergency suitcase with everything important. The kind of things you’d grab if you were fleeing a burning building. In a way, it kind of felt like I was.
He came home from work at 7pm on the dot. He took his usual seat on the sofa and that’s when I took a deep breath and said, “We need to talk…”