Blanche (Chapter 1)

The evening of March 7, 2024

I’m embarrassed we are meeting this way.

I swear it wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always like this.

Right after the divorce was finalized, I told my therapist it felt worse than death.

At least if your husband dies, you get to grieve something final. All of the “I can’t believe it’s the same thing again” arguments, the scream-crying fights, and the loneliness you felt… even when he was in the room with you… it all gets buried six feet under. All your friends, his friends, and your couple-friends, they rally around you with overpriced pastry deliveries, fresh flowers, understanding glances. You get to remember the good old days.

In divorce, you’re forced to relive your personal nightmares over and over. Every time you do the kid hand-off, during the school fundraiser, at that one coffee shop. You feel it: his cutting words (those ones he long ago promised never to say, as he held your face, the sun just peeking in) slamming into you. The countless nights you lay awake waiting for him to come home from the office but he never did. The lethargic look he gave you as you begged him to care. And don’t get me started on those people who used to drink your wine, eat your french-fucking-cheese, and insist you donate to their “incredibly important charity.” They don’t even acknowledge you, can’t even spare a glance in your direction.

Which is why I told her, “I wish he had just died.” And meant it.

So, when the police arrived at my house this morning with the news, I couldn’t stop wondering. Is it possible? In some twisted way, did I will this to happen?