I got into my car and started to sob. So much more than a glass had been shattered the night I stood under the chuppah
Today is my first anniversary and I’m standing in my bedroom, with its fading teenage posters, collages of high school pictures, and the faint smell of childhood.
Technically, it’s my first anniversary, but is it still called that if I’m no longer married, and my get, less than 24 hours old, is sprinkled with tears that haven’t quite dried?
My neighbors, my coworkers, everyone is gentle and cautious around me, but some of them think to themselves — I can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices — What is the world coming to? Is nobody willing to work on their marriages anymore? Did nobody tell her that marriage is not disposable?
But to me, marriage was never disposable; it was fine china, delicate and precious. And though I discovered pretty quickly that mine was full of chips and cracks, I still tried my best to polish it to a sheen.
Create a free account to keep reading.
