...that's when I knew it was over.

It unfolded like a soap opera. Something created by a writer sitting in a room specifically to yank at the heartstrings of viewers in the most divisive way possible: and I was the star.

I was in our closet, looking through the old letters he used to write me before the kids, before things became commonplace and habitual.

Yes, I wanted to return to those times. But I didn't want to go there alone. So I started to piece together each and every one of those moments that he froze in time with his pen inside a scrapbook. It was his birthday and this seemed like the perfect way to celebrate him, us.

"Dear Becky,

Have you gotten the mustard out of your shirt yet? Sorry about that. I should have known hot dogs and ferris wheels don't mix. If it's of any consequence, the mustard looked great. I had a lot of fun. You're a lot of fun. I'll never forget what you looked like at the top of the ferris wheel. Let's do this again.

Sincerely,

Wayne"

This scrapbook was a lot more than bound letters. It was a vacation. That's what this was. Vacations allow you to hit pause on life and go off to an alternate universe where cares don't matter or have any merit and disbelief is suspended indefinitely. Time moves fast, but only because it's so pleasurable. That's where these letters took me. Away. To a special place. My hope was that they would take him away for at least a golden minute as well.

I reached up into the tippy-top of the closet behind the old shoebox filled with bills from over the years and found a box that wasn't familiar.

"5-27-86

Dear Wayne,

Last week was spectacular..."

It wasn't my writing. Or my words. My heart dropped to the carpet in less time than it took to seal our marriage with a kiss, God as our witness.

"...I miss you. You should stop by more often..."

Vacation's over.

"...Happy Birthday. Here's to another great year.

Love,

Terri"

It hit with all the strength of a hurricane. Who was this woman? Who was this man I shared my bed, my life, my children with?

The box was filled with memories, frozen in time with his pen, just like the ones I collected over the years. Memories he shared not with me, but with another person. She stole my vacation. She stole my best friend.

...that's when I knew it was over.

Divorce wasn't the end of my relationship with my husband. It was the beginning of my relationship with a new life.

Learn more about this author, Danny Mchatton.
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