Marriage Afterlife
“I thought you had the perfect marriage!” my new friend quipped after my request for prayers for my husband, Bob.
“I look forward to correcting your perception of our marriage.”
It had been one year since the Air Force moved us to Iowa. Just enough time for a few people to get to know us, especially those in the new Bible study group Bob volunteered to teach. It was thrilling to see his spiritual growth, and I hoped that soon his devotion to our shared faith would match my own.
We moved to a new housing development in an old bedroom community. The homes were modern, front doors eclipsed by two- and three-car garages. Most driveways held the newest model vehicles and sleek fishing boats.
Bob chose the housing developer’s show model: a two-story light gray house with a front porch and two-stall attached garage. This house contained all the bells and whistles necessary to lure in the most pretentious of middle-class citizenry.
One afternoon, during our second summer in the neighborhood, I lay on the overstuffed couch staring sleepily at the smooth grey walls and plush beige carpet. Bob had left one month before to run an Air Force cadet training, so I was left to attend to our two young children on my own. Not only had this been challenging to my physical and mental energy, I was also caring for our third child, now six months along in utero.
After a few restful moments, the smell of peanut butter wafted into the living room. My daughter had learned to make her own snack of choice: a peanut butter sandwich. It was some relief knowing she was old enough to do some basic things on her own. However, I couldn’t completely evade the feeling of guilt, thinking myself lazy as my four-year-old fed herself. I pushed the thoughts aside, knowing what my friends would tell me: “You need to take care of yourself so you can take care of your children. That means rest when you need it.”
Those thoughts were interrupted by the chirping of my flip phone. Bob! It had been a week since we talked.
“Hi hon!” I said.
“Hi.”
“How’s it going?”
“It’s humid as hell in Alabama.”
“Did they give you a date for coming back home?”
“In a few weeks.”
“Okay. Well, Scotty keeps squatting like he’s dancing when he has to poo, then I just walk him to the potty chair, and he takes off his own diaper. He always says pew-pew and plugs his nose!”
“Uh-huh.”
“The doctor says the baby is growing on pace and they see nothing wrong. I’ve been more tired lately, but they said my vitals are good. My belly is getting so heavy!”
“Okay.”
At that moment, I realized something seemed off. I quickly moved back through the three-minute conversation. I knew I could talk too much sometimes, so maybe I just needed to shut my mouth. No…that wasn’t it. His responses felt empty. My heart started to flutter, my body unconsciously picking up on some sort of danger.
I prodded: “Is everything okay?”
Silence. For thirty seconds. The pounding of my heart became increasingly voracious. Thirty more seconds, then…
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Bob responded.
“About what?” Is he going to tell me he wants to quit the Air Force? Does he want to become a full-time pastor? Does he want to move overseas? I just wanted him to spit it out. Whatever it was, I knew we could work it out together.
Silence.
Then came the beginning of the end.
“I feel like our marriage is a marriage of acquaintance. I don’t want to be married anymore.”
My jaw dropped, my eyes popped, my brain froze. Wait...WHAT?!
The ensuing two weeks brought fraught texts, emails, and voicemails, and the time had come for Bob to return from training. He was flying into the Des Moines International airport, and he needed a ride. Everyone was telling me to make him find his own ride. Of course they would say that. How dare he ask his pregnant wife whom he abandoned over the phone to come pick him up! I, however, was still under the impression that none of this was actually happening. I was also, still, under the spell of his narcissism and my faith-rooted call to “kill him with kindness.”
That killing began with cleaning his car. I would drive his car down to pick him up; maybe that show of love, taking care of his car despite what he was doing, might jostle some compassion inside him.
A gas station sat within walking distance of the airport where we decided to meet. I pulled up to the pump. My brain had been racing through the scenarios that might soon occur rather than paying attention to the gas gauge before I left my house. Instead of inhaling a clean, deep breath to calm my nerves, I choked on the smell of gasoline. Jet engines roared overhead, payments beeped at the gas gauges, and clicking persisted as gas pumps started and stopped.
I finally saw him push out of the gas station doors. My nose began to sting, and my eyes filled to the brim with tears…I hadn’t seen him in six weeks. This should be a happy reunion. Maybe a gargantuan hug and tears of happiness and relief to see each other. Maybe there would be brief moments spent rubbing my belly, greeting the growing offspring inside and recognizing the increasing physical constraints of carrying her. My breath was paralyzed as I waited to witness his first reactions.
The approach: nonchalant, and brisk. Once he was under the covered pumps, he lifted the front of his shirt up to his shoulders to show off his newly toned abs and a leaner physique. He looked at me with a domineering pride and a smile that wreaked of every psychotic character I had seen in the movies.
“There. That can be the ice breaker.”
He maneuvered to take over the gas pump and get in the driver’s seat.
One week after his return, Bob had already lined up a new apartment and moved out. He started his end of the legal divorce work while he was in Alabama, because…ninety days…that was the required time parents must wait to legally end a marriage if children were involved. He needed that timeline to start as soon as possible.
The voice of my lawyer on the other end of the phone still rang in my head weeks later while sitting next to Bob in the “Children in the Middle” divorce class.
“At this point, I believe nothing is going to change his mind. It’s probably best to just get this done.”
My tears did not stop him. His children’s begging for him to stay home did not stop him. His parents’ tears, his friends’ pleas, and the faith he taught others that says divorce is wrong did not stop him. He was driving this freight train at full speed. Anyone or anything in his way was flung by the wayside. And now it was time for him to inform his children of his permanent plans…
Myah and Scotty huddled close to my side on the couch, while their one-week-old sister napped in her crib. Bob stood in front of the couch, facing his family.
“So, guys, your Mom and I aren’t going to be married anymore. Do you have any questions about that?”
Myah slowly shook her head, both children staring at the floor. Christmas lights from the tree glittered out of the corner of my eye as I looked in the opposite direction to keep from showing my quivering chin and pursed lips. My heart raced again. I’ve heard each human is born with only a certain number of heartbeats, if they die of natural causes. I was certain I would reach my limit far too soon.
Given orders not to drive for two weeks after my cesarean section, Bob took charge of driving me to my final legal appointment in Des Moines, a 45-minute drive. Our infant daughter was along for the ride, as nursing mother and infant child cannot be separated for more than a few hours. I straddled the handle of my daughter’s infant car seat over the crook of my right elbow and carried her inside. Embarrassment flushed my face as I informed the receptionist of my appointment. What must she be thinking…what man leaves a woman who just gave birth to their child? She must think I am a horrible woman for him to dump me like this.
People from my church flooded to the rescue. I rode home from the hospital with a woman I had only met the week before. One woman took charge of coordinating an online meal sign up. Sometimes those who brought meals stayed awhile, trying to be helpful with the children, and usually wanting to hear the story. I was grateful for the barter.
Six months after the divorce, Bob moved nine hours away to be with his new wife. Two months following, having lost his job in the Air Force, his second dealing with the legal system brought him another victory, reducing my alimony and child support. Subsequently, my fourth summer in the neighborhood brought a new part-time job at an elementary school.
After my four-hour morning shift, I headed to Wal-Mart dressed in a typical business casual outfit: grey dress slacks, burgundy knit sweater with white dress collar poking over the top. The scanner beeped in my groceries while I began to fill out my WIC checks. When I handed my checks to the clerk, she firmly explained, “We are hiring and have good benefits.” A slow boil began in my blood and bubbled to color my face. I calmly coached myself, “Just nod and walk away.”
Saturday morning, my three children watched Sesame Street, two of them on the couch, one of them curled on the carpeted floor with a blanket. I snuck to the kitchen, quieted my mind, and looked around the room. This was my new home. Mine. A cozy duplex nine miles from our old neighborhood. My children had beds and clothes and food. And I had the thermostat exactly where I wanted it.
My mind floated to past decisions that were making our transition more comfortable. Joining the military after high school, shocking those who knew me as meek and quiet, paid for the bachelor’s degree which led to my new part-time job and an extremely caring co-worker. The income from this job allowed me to buy more than just hot dogs and bread for groceries, and we had a grassy, private backyard instead of a loud, rickety, low-income apartment.
I shook my head.
I pondered the comments from a few other friends that my decision to work part-time was not wise. “You need benefits, you need to start building retirement and emergency savings…” On and on. But I knew that my children needed me at my best, which meant not drowning my energy in an eight-hour-per-day job. I knew the importance of budget-balancing and energy-balancing. Full-time work requires full-time childcare expenses and full-time mental expenses. I took the calculated risk of part-time work, and it was paying off.
One more evening routine saw the children off to sleep. I curled up in my bed, wrapped in the warmth of a thick blanket, and the pride of making my own path. I was forced into this position as head of household, but the past decisions, the hard work, and the risky choices to do what I knew was best had built this successful and nurturing household. We were not going to be okay…we were okay.
“I look forward to correcting your perception of our marriage.”
It had been one year since the Air Force moved us to Iowa. Just enough time for a few people to get to know us, especially those in the new Bible study group Bob volunteered to teach. It was thrilling to see his spiritual growth, and I hoped that soon his devotion to our shared faith would match my own.
We moved to a new housing development in an old bedroom community. The homes were modern, front doors eclipsed by two- and three-car garages. Most driveways held the newest model vehicles and sleek fishing boats.
Bob chose the housing developer’s show model: a two-story light gray house with a front porch and two-stall attached garage. This house contained all the bells and whistles necessary to lure in the most pretentious of middle-class citizenry.
One afternoon, during our second summer in the neighborhood, I lay on the overstuffed couch staring sleepily at the smooth grey walls and plush beige carpet. Bob had left one month before to run an Air Force cadet training, so I was left to attend to our two young children on my own. Not only had this been challenging to my physical and mental energy, I was also caring for our third child, now six months along in utero.
After a few restful moments, the smell of peanut butter wafted into the living room. My daughter had learned to make her own snack of choice: a peanut butter sandwich. It was some relief knowing she was old enough to do some basic things on her own. However, I couldn’t completely evade the feeling of guilt, thinking myself lazy as my four-year-old fed herself. I pushed the thoughts aside, knowing what my friends would tell me: “You need to take care of yourself so you can take care of your children. That means rest when you need it.”
Those thoughts were interrupted by the chirping of my flip phone. Bob! It had been a week since we talked.
“Hi hon!” I said.
“Hi.”
“How’s it going?”
“It’s humid as hell in Alabama.”
“Did they give you a date for coming back home?”
“In a few weeks.”
“Okay. Well, Scotty keeps squatting like he’s dancing when he has to poo, then I just walk him to the potty chair, and he takes off his own diaper. He always says pew-pew and plugs his nose!”
“Uh-huh.”
“The doctor says the baby is growing on pace and they see nothing wrong. I’ve been more tired lately, but they said my vitals are good. My belly is getting so heavy!”
“Okay.”
At that moment, I realized something seemed off. I quickly moved back through the three-minute conversation. I knew I could talk too much sometimes, so maybe I just needed to shut my mouth. No…that wasn’t it. His responses felt empty. My heart started to flutter, my body unconsciously picking up on some sort of danger.
I prodded: “Is everything okay?”
Silence. For thirty seconds. The pounding of my heart became increasingly voracious. Thirty more seconds, then…
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Bob responded.
“About what?” Is he going to tell me he wants to quit the Air Force? Does he want to become a full-time pastor? Does he want to move overseas? I just wanted him to spit it out. Whatever it was, I knew we could work it out together.
Silence.
Then came the beginning of the end.
“I feel like our marriage is a marriage of acquaintance. I don’t want to be married anymore.”
My jaw dropped, my eyes popped, my brain froze. Wait...WHAT?!
The ensuing two weeks brought fraught texts, emails, and voicemails, and the time had come for Bob to return from training. He was flying into the Des Moines International airport, and he needed a ride. Everyone was telling me to make him find his own ride. Of course they would say that. How dare he ask his pregnant wife whom he abandoned over the phone to come pick him up! I, however, was still under the impression that none of this was actually happening. I was also, still, under the spell of his narcissism and my faith-rooted call to “kill him with kindness.”
That killing began with cleaning his car. I would drive his car down to pick him up; maybe that show of love, taking care of his car despite what he was doing, might jostle some compassion inside him.
A gas station sat within walking distance of the airport where we decided to meet. I pulled up to the pump. My brain had been racing through the scenarios that might soon occur rather than paying attention to the gas gauge before I left my house. Instead of inhaling a clean, deep breath to calm my nerves, I choked on the smell of gasoline. Jet engines roared overhead, payments beeped at the gas gauges, and clicking persisted as gas pumps started and stopped.
I finally saw him push out of the gas station doors. My nose began to sting, and my eyes filled to the brim with tears…I hadn’t seen him in six weeks. This should be a happy reunion. Maybe a gargantuan hug and tears of happiness and relief to see each other. Maybe there would be brief moments spent rubbing my belly, greeting the growing offspring inside and recognizing the increasing physical constraints of carrying her. My breath was paralyzed as I waited to witness his first reactions.
The approach: nonchalant, and brisk. Once he was under the covered pumps, he lifted the front of his shirt up to his shoulders to show off his newly toned abs and a leaner physique. He looked at me with a domineering pride and a smile that wreaked of every psychotic character I had seen in the movies.
“There. That can be the ice breaker.”
He maneuvered to take over the gas pump and get in the driver’s seat.
One week after his return, Bob had already lined up a new apartment and moved out. He started his end of the legal divorce work while he was in Alabama, because…ninety days…that was the required time parents must wait to legally end a marriage if children were involved. He needed that timeline to start as soon as possible.
The voice of my lawyer on the other end of the phone still rang in my head weeks later while sitting next to Bob in the “Children in the Middle” divorce class.
“At this point, I believe nothing is going to change his mind. It’s probably best to just get this done.”
My tears did not stop him. His children’s begging for him to stay home did not stop him. His parents’ tears, his friends’ pleas, and the faith he taught others that says divorce is wrong did not stop him. He was driving this freight train at full speed. Anyone or anything in his way was flung by the wayside. And now it was time for him to inform his children of his permanent plans…
Myah and Scotty huddled close to my side on the couch, while their one-week-old sister napped in her crib. Bob stood in front of the couch, facing his family.
“So, guys, your Mom and I aren’t going to be married anymore. Do you have any questions about that?”
Myah slowly shook her head, both children staring at the floor. Christmas lights from the tree glittered out of the corner of my eye as I looked in the opposite direction to keep from showing my quivering chin and pursed lips. My heart raced again. I’ve heard each human is born with only a certain number of heartbeats, if they die of natural causes. I was certain I would reach my limit far too soon.
Given orders not to drive for two weeks after my cesarean section, Bob took charge of driving me to my final legal appointment in Des Moines, a 45-minute drive. Our infant daughter was along for the ride, as nursing mother and infant child cannot be separated for more than a few hours. I straddled the handle of my daughter’s infant car seat over the crook of my right elbow and carried her inside. Embarrassment flushed my face as I informed the receptionist of my appointment. What must she be thinking…what man leaves a woman who just gave birth to their child? She must think I am a horrible woman for him to dump me like this.
People from my church flooded to the rescue. I rode home from the hospital with a woman I had only met the week before. One woman took charge of coordinating an online meal sign up. Sometimes those who brought meals stayed awhile, trying to be helpful with the children, and usually wanting to hear the story. I was grateful for the barter.
Six months after the divorce, Bob moved nine hours away to be with his new wife. Two months following, having lost his job in the Air Force, his second dealing with the legal system brought him another victory, reducing my alimony and child support. Subsequently, my fourth summer in the neighborhood brought a new part-time job at an elementary school.
After my four-hour morning shift, I headed to Wal-Mart dressed in a typical business casual outfit: grey dress slacks, burgundy knit sweater with white dress collar poking over the top. The scanner beeped in my groceries while I began to fill out my WIC checks. When I handed my checks to the clerk, she firmly explained, “We are hiring and have good benefits.” A slow boil began in my blood and bubbled to color my face. I calmly coached myself, “Just nod and walk away.”
Saturday morning, my three children watched Sesame Street, two of them on the couch, one of them curled on the carpeted floor with a blanket. I snuck to the kitchen, quieted my mind, and looked around the room. This was my new home. Mine. A cozy duplex nine miles from our old neighborhood. My children had beds and clothes and food. And I had the thermostat exactly where I wanted it.
My mind floated to past decisions that were making our transition more comfortable. Joining the military after high school, shocking those who knew me as meek and quiet, paid for the bachelor’s degree which led to my new part-time job and an extremely caring co-worker. The income from this job allowed me to buy more than just hot dogs and bread for groceries, and we had a grassy, private backyard instead of a loud, rickety, low-income apartment.
I shook my head.
I pondered the comments from a few other friends that my decision to work part-time was not wise. “You need benefits, you need to start building retirement and emergency savings…” On and on. But I knew that my children needed me at my best, which meant not drowning my energy in an eight-hour-per-day job. I knew the importance of budget-balancing and energy-balancing. Full-time work requires full-time childcare expenses and full-time mental expenses. I took the calculated risk of part-time work, and it was paying off.
One more evening routine saw the children off to sleep. I curled up in my bed, wrapped in the warmth of a thick blanket, and the pride of making my own path. I was forced into this position as head of household, but the past decisions, the hard work, and the risky choices to do what I knew was best had built this successful and nurturing household. We were not going to be okay…we were okay.
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Jennifer Lynn
Jennifer Lynn holds a Master of Arts in Professional Creative Writing from the University of Denver. She is also the creator/owner of Pelerine Media, Ltd. Jennifer has lived all over the United States as part of her time in the United States Marine Corps, and currently resides in Iowa. She loves to investigate the human condition through nonfiction essays, memoir and short fiction.
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