one thousand ninety five

    Three years ago today, I separated from my husband of twelve years, two months, three weeks and five days.
    I spent that Monday morning at work doing little more than shaking, crying, and asking myself over and over, "Is this what I really want? Is this what I really want?"
    During my lunch hour, I drove home and packed enough clothes and things to hold me for a few days while I stayed with friends. I tried not to think about everything I was deliberately leaving behind. I played with my cats--my cats--for the last time. I went back to work.
    After work (an utterly wasted day), I went home. I waited. He came home. He knew, I think, before any words came out of my mouth. I was calm while I told him, and he cried. Then he was calm while he talked and I cried. The we sat on the floor in the dining room and cried together.
    And then I left.
    I never returned. I came to get my things. I came to talk. We are still friends. But I never returned.
    I'm so much better, happier, younger, more alive now.
    It's been three years, today.