It has been over a year since my breakup. Many people think my struggles are a result of my divorce. Indirectly, I agree, that they are right.

I know I did not come out of that relationship unscathed. The ultimate freedom I have experienced has been intoxicating and wonderful. I have no regrets, at all, about dissolving that toxic relationship.

On my divorce day I was exhilarated and happy. I finally felt I could breathe. The cancer I had was expensively removed. I was given a clean bill of health.

The legal seal on my divorce decree gave me the only two things I loved and cherished:

My children & my law practice

The rest I didn’t give a damn about.

On this downward slope of my recovery I thought I met someone wonderful. Someone I thought to be amazing. You need to understand that I wasn’t looking for any solutions. He just happened to be on my trek down or walked into my path. I thought him kind. I really enjoyed spending time with him. He appeared safe. I had known him for a long time. He was amazingly smart. He knew the pressures of a law office. He was a comrade in arms.

That we had in common.

It was an entire year before he met my girls. I figured in this wait, this exceedingly intelligent man, would figure his intentions out within a year. He was witty and funny. I loved the sound of his voice.

He said I was everything wonderful and more.

He talked about wanting a family. He was alone. I could provide him one.

In a sick way maybe that was his way of luring me in.
But between you and me by year three I was tired of words. I was tired of hearing about a future. He confessed to me the thought of buying us a home. He told me how we would run our finances (he even wrote this down on a legal yellow sheet of paper).

He was so very rich and smart about all of it.

He talked about taking the girls and I on trips together. So I planned one. We discussed the destination. In his cheapness and procrastination I decided to move us along and pay for it.

A week before it was time to get on that plane he informed me, quite simply, that he had just changed his mind.

Then his confession poured out. This is not something he wanted. This is not something he would enjoy. We were a mistake. Our relationship was a mistake.

My thoughts tumbled out. My innocence was my demise.

I asked him when were all of his words going to become a reality? Why just talk about a future if there isn’t going to be a future? I just simply wanted to know when all this future was going to start.

He couldn’t seem to give me any answers just excuses. He wasn’t attracted to me anymore. We did not have any fun together anymore. We didn’t have those intimate discussions or time alone together.

Just so you know I am not a baby nor a child. I could have handled the truth. I could have handled I only want you as my whore. I only want you when I want. I only need you when I need you. I make all the decisions. All this wife and family and baby talk was a ruse.

I only told you those things so I could just continue to have sex with you.

I would have respected him more for the truth.

My inner voice hissed: Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.

It hits me. This is a Judas I have linked myself up to. He is a cheap coward.

I am not use to this concept of being cruel. I don’t like it. This is not a person I want to be. These thoughts of hating him are not what I want either. They are stones I throw back. I am wounded and so very hurt. I am, after all, human.

This is the moment that I carefully collect up all that shattered glass from my heartbreak. I put the shards in a shoe box. I shove it far back under my bed.

(You all know that I have this odd habit of storing things so I can look at them later).

Over those weeks I make myself get out of bed. I make myself go out and meet people. I make myself stop crying. I make myself focus on my work. I try not to sleep too much. I try to appear happy to the girls.

They hear me crying myself to sleep at night.

Then I met Amy. I start to write. I decide that I am going to create something. I work on my house and yard. I go on trips. My house takes on some beauty. I have friends that stop bye to see me. Even the neighbor comes over for a coffee and to sit with us for our lunch in the front yard. I decide that I want to offer something lovely to this world.

I haven’t cried in months. I feel myself getting well.

I like this person. The one who decides to take all of her hurt and try to turn it into something beautiful, sweet, tragic, honest and good.

Over the past few weeks I think maybe, just maybe it could be possible, that I might even be able to fall in love again….

And there it is. A white line in my in box. There it sits holding his name.


I suck in my breath. (It’s like hearing my childhood sweetheart’s name called out from that distant swing set).
I make a pact with myself.
I will read it. I will not answer it. (In the past I would have responded in seconds).

My apparent non answer must have irritated this man who is always in control and gets what he wants.

On Tuesday a white envelope is delivered to my office. It contains that familiar left hand scrawl.

I know this card is from a person who, in his 80 hour work week, rarely ever takes the effort to go to any store to buy any type of card.
This is from a man who professed his love but yet forgot my birthday.

I question the motivation for this contact.

But it goes deeper. The card is to my oldest for her graduation.

When I tell Amy about this she takes on her angry tone. In her matter- of -fact- no- nonsense voice she tells me exactly what it is.
(This is why I adore her. She does not spare me her harsh truths)

On the flip side my associate points out, “Jodi, sometimes a card is just a card.”

O.K. but I know that this is from a man whose actions are planned, deliberate, and calculated.

You reader, tell me, why did he send a card?

I look at that scrawl. I don’t like that it came to my office. I don’t like that it sits on my paralegal’s desk. I don’t like that it is sent to my child.
I have no right not to give it to her. It is her mail.

He just intruded in on my tranquility. The pond water was a glassy mirror. I was doing great. He just threw a tiny pebble into the middle of it.

Over the last week I say nothing to him about any card. I know he will wonder. True to form I receive another e-mail.

I am not a rude person by nature but I don’t want to lead us into any more dialogue.

I go home and crawl under my bed. I take the top off of the shoe box. I see the sharp broken pieces I collected up over a year ago. I don’t dare touch them. I don’t have any desire to get cut again.

The evidence is sitting on my office desk. A card from him is not just a card.

Or is it?

My inner voice whispers: He misses you. He misses everything about you. He misses your e-mails. He misses your questions. He misses your wit and exquisite sense of humor. He misses that when you walk into a room everyone asks how he caught you. He misses that when you go into a bar you get him free drinks. He misses your kisses. He misses your fingers running through his hair. He misses your friendship. He misses you naked in his bathtub. He misses your homemade dinners. He misses going to the movies. He misses your dining out and those thousands and thousands of dinner conversations. He misses your smile and eyes and laugh and……………..

I close the lid on my shoe box. I am taking it out to the corner curb trash.

I am 19 again. It’s Ted and I in that corner booth just down the street from my office. This gorgeous witty boy (who I was crazy about) confesses that he really screwed up. That he wants me back. Debbie was not the right choice. That he is so very very sorry. He misses me terribly. That he was young and stupid. He was trying to explain it to me. It’s like having two really fast cars. One of us was a Porsche. One of us was a Ferrari.

How could a stupid boy decide?

This is the part where my younger self stops crying. I have been reduced to a type of car. I go to that front restaurant pay phone.
I call my best friend Jen. She is coming to get me. She will be right there to take me home.

I love Michigan in summer.

It is so empowering.