Moving Day

Taking the first picture off the wall and gently placing it a box was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Days later I still sat looking at the bare spot on the wall, a lump in my throat and tears welling uncontrollably. Taking that picture down was acknowledging the inevitable, and I kept forgetting to breathe.

The next week, women began showing up on my doorstep with cardboard boxes and rolls of tape. The doorbell would ring, and I never knew how many kind faces would be standing there- but every day, they came as the sun. My shoulders were bowed under the weight of a life imploding, and those hands held up more than cardboard boxes that week.

Divorce ripples out and out, and changes people who thought they were far enough from the ragged epicenter to be safe. No one is safe. Divorce, while first a deeply private and painful rending surprised me in being also a communal sorrow. I did not – could not have- anticipated the families effected by, touched by, and changed by the private hell of the loss of my marriage.

Read the rest of this story at
Comments and feedback can be sent to