Every holiday, I arrived alone at the Davidson gatherings. I was consistently the outsider and the easy target. Her brothers and sisters no longer even tried to hide their jabs.
To them, I wasn't a husband. I was a punchline. A stand-in. Something to sneer at once the drinks kicked in.
The memory pressed on my chest like a vice. My eyes burned, but I forced the sting back and swallowed the knot in my throat. I kept my head down and typed the divorce agreement on my phone.
Sometimes you've got to hit the wall head-on before it finally cracks your skull that you're not made of stone.
Everyone bleeds once before they figure out when it's time to walk away.
When I finished drafting it, I emailed the document to Margaux. Then, I made a call.
...
By that afternoon, I sat across from my best friend, Kenneth Cuthbert, at a bar downtown. His usual carefree vibe was nowhere to be seen. His expression was flat, unreadable. He looked at me like I was walking straight into a fire with my eyes open.
"You really thought this through?" Kenneth asked, his voice low. "Eighteen years, Troy. You've loved her that long. Are you really ready to let Margaux go?"