divorce
Divorce isn't an end; it's a different beginning.
Grandpa's Ax
Wind whistles around the dilapidated shed. I’m huddled, back against the rough plank door, chin on my knees, arms wrapped around my shins. I barely dare to breathe. My husband’s footsteps fall to a stop in the thick leaves outside. His shadow blocks the sun coming through a crack in the wall. Across the dark, crowded room, Grandpa’s ax hangs on a nail. If I can get to it before the man outside gets to me…
By Wendi Christner5 years ago in Humans
Anything of Value
I found the little black moleskin notebook when I had gone back to check for anything of value. I guess technically I wasn’t supposed to be there, but technically it’s still my house, court rulings be damned. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a good guy. I’m a really good guy. I was an eagle scout and I won the eighth grade junior achievement award, but no way in hell was I going to let her cash in on anything more of value, and I was sure there were some things there that we had failed to remember when splitting the assets with the lawyers and judge; some things that she no doubt had failed to mention, knowing full well that I had a poor memory for that kind of thing.
By Kerry Smith5 years ago in Humans
A Letter to The Friend I Lost After My Divorce
Dear Ex-Friend, I ate the quiche you made. You know, the one you made for Nathan because his wife left a few months ago and you felt sorry for him. He shared it with me because I’m on my own tonight too — my kids are at their dad’s — and it was delicious. I loved the mushrooms you added. Honestly, it was a really good quiche. I would say it falls within the top five best quiches I’ve ever eaten.
By Kelly Eden5 years ago in Humans
Maryanne
She pulled into the driveway. As she sat there holding the keys, she couldn’t bring herself to get out of the car right away. It was not exactly the house she wanted. Instead the unremarkable little ranch was a sensible, responsible choice. But she couldn’t help but think about the tiny, charming cottage with the arched doorways and cozy breakfast nook. That’s where she really pictured herself. That’s where she saw herself hosting intimate dinner parties with close friends, sipping after dinner drinks in front of the fireplace. She wondered how she was supposed to have the impossibly beautiful post-divorce life she imagined in this basic, two bedroom ranch.
By Tera Staten5 years ago in Humans
Little Black Book
As if the divorce and moving hadn’t been enough, Cecelia was now tasked with cleaning out the eerie attic of her new home. She hadn’t known about the attic when she purchased the home. It wasn’t until she was bringing boxes in and accidently touched a trigger that opened a door to a hidden staircase. It struck her as strange that the realtor hadn’t mentioned it but maybe he didn’t know about it. Either way it was a large extra space she could clean up and turn into a storage room and maybe her new writing space. Something maybe a little less creepy.
By Corinne Oates5 years ago in Humans
A Losing Game
She knew she needed to slow down. Slow down. Those two words were far reaching beyond the pavement she stared at before her. It was early, and hunger was causing her stomach to rub against her backbone. Just a couple more hours and she would be home. Food, a hot shower and her favorite pajamas would make her feel better. With any luck, the combination of those things would cast a magical spell and make the pain go away.
By Regina Walters5 years ago in Humans
Till Death Do Us Part
Weak December daylight filters through the gauzy bedroom curtains. I roll over and reach for Nick, but of course, he isn’t in bed. I almost forgot Nick is leaving me today. Leaving me for a younger version--of me. Leaving me and my infertile womb and my drinking problem brought on by my infertile womb. Leaving me. Discarding me. Moving on without me.
By Lisa Black5 years ago in Humans
We Girls Have To Stick Together
I was sure I would recognize her when I saw her. Philip has a “type.” I already know her name is Bridget. She also described herself in great detail on the phone, which made me even more agitated than I was before we made our lunch date. We didn’t do the usual “you’ll know me by the white carnation” crap. She just said, “I’ll be the one who’s eight months pregnant.” That should be easy enough to spot. Especially in an out of the way truck stop diner. This greasy spoon would not have been my first choice for our meeting, but I couldn’t risk being spotted by anyone who knew my husband, or by my husband for that matter.
By DeEtta Miller5 years ago in Humans
Thinking Clearly
Acknowledgment I dedicate this guide to all of the strong women who have survived domestic abuse. I am proud of you for finding the strength inside of you—that you didn't know you had. For those of you still caught up in the struggle, let this guide be your guiding light.
By Dejaye Botkin5 years ago in Humans
