My husband had twins with my best friend. I signed the divorce papers without a word. Then he went to his mother’s house, and she went white and said, “She still hasn’t told you about that?”
The last thing.
People ask me what the worst part was.
They expect the dining table. Or the photographs. Or the wristband.
It is none of those.
It is a Christmas Eve in 2015. Corbin’s parents’ house. About eleven at night.
We had been trying for two and a half years. I had had the surgery in the October and I was still sore and I had convinced myself it was going to work.
And I was standing in that kitchen and I lost it, properly, and I apologised to him.
I said sorry. I said it about four times. I said I was sorry that I could not do the one thing.
And my husband put his arms around me and said, “Don’t. We’ll get there.”
And there was a box upstairs in that house, in that exact building, forty feet above where I was standing, with a letter in it from 2002 that said the word irreversible twice.
He was standing in his mother’s kitchen holding his crying wife who was apologising to him.
