Fifty-Six Years and a Divorce Surprise
ALL THROUGH FIFTY-SIX YEARS OF WEDLOCK, IT DAWNED ON ME THAT MIKE, MY HUSBAND, HAD UTTERLY HALTED ROMANTIC GESTURES. NATURALLY, MY MIND TOOK A TUMBLE, AND I BEGAN TO WONDER IF HE WAS UNFAITHFUL.
WHEN I FINALLY FACED HIM, HE SNAPPED: “FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, ERIN! WE’VE BEEN MARRIED FOR DECADES. I’VE GIVEN YOU SOMETHING SPECIAL EVERY SINGLE DAY SINCE, AND THE MOMENT I PAUSE, YOU THINK I’M CHEATING? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?”
I TOOK A PACE BACK AND REALIZED HE WASN’T WRONG. MIKE HAD ALWAYS BEEN THE ONE KINDLING THE FLAME IN OUR MARRIAGE. SO, I DECIDED IT WAS TIME TO STEP UP AND RETURN THE COURTESY.
BUT WHAT I DIDN’T FORESEE WAS HOW, JUST A FEW MONTHS LATER, I’D BE SITTING WITH DIVORCE PAPERS AND NOT BECAUSE OF CHEATING.😳👇So I dove headfirst into Operation: Romance Revival. I booked us a weekend getaway to a cozy cabin in the woods, complete with a fireplace and a hot tub under the stars. I started leaving love notes in his lunch bag, cooked elaborate candlelit dinners, and even attempted to recreate our first date, which involved a disastrous picnic and a sudden downpour.
Mike, initially, seemed amused. He chuckled at the heart-shaped pancakes, politely complimented the slightly burnt romantic dinner, and even joined me in the hot tub, though he mostly talked about the upcoming football season. But as the weeks turned into months, his amusement faded.
One evening, after I surprised him with tickets to a cheesy rom-com (his usual taste ran more towards war documentaries), he sat me down on the sofa. “Erin,” he began, his voice unusually serious, “I appreciate what you’re doing, I really do. It’s… lovely.” He paused, searching for the right words. “But it’s not you.”
“What do you mean, not me?” I asked, a knot forming in my stomach.
“These grand gestures,” he gestured around the living room, which was currently adorned with fairy lights I’d painstakingly strung up. “This isn’t what I fell in love with. I fell in love with the Erin who made my coffee just the way I like it every morning, who folded my socks into perfect pairs, who always knew when to listen and when to give me space. Those were your ‘romantic gestures’, Erin. Those were your everyday ‘special things’.”
He continued, “For years, I’ve shown my love in ways I thought you appreciated – fixing things around the house without being asked, remembering your dry cleaning, making sure your car had gas. Practical things, maybe. But they were my way of saying ‘I love you, I’m taking care of you.'”
My heart sank as I listened. He was right. My attempts at romance felt forced, unnatural, like I was playing a role. And in trying to be someone I wasn’t, I’d inadvertently made him feel like *he* wasn’t enough, that his quiet, consistent love wasn’t valued.
“And,” Mike sighed, picking up the divorce papers from the coffee table, “it seems like you’ve realized that too. You’ve changed, Erin. And maybe,” he looked at me, his eyes filled with a sadness I hadn’t seen before, “maybe we both have.”
The divorce papers weren’t about infidelity. They were about incompatibility – not a sudden onset, but a slow, creeping divergence that my well-intentioned romantic revolution had brought to the surface. In trying to rekindle a flame, I had inadvertently revealed that the fire had, perhaps, burned down to embers a long time ago, leaving behind warmth, comfort, and a deep-seated affection, but not the passionate blaze of romance I had suddenly craved. And sometimes, even fifty-six years of habit and shared history aren’t enough to rebuild a fire that’s gone out.