I don't have any of my own money, not really. I don't even have my own bank account since we use a joint account to pay the bills, the groceries, house repairs, the boys' clothes, paint supplies, and basketball equipment.
My name is on the account, sure—but the name on the checks deposited is alwaysAtlas Durant.
I need to be able to stand on my own two feet. I need income, and I need to be smart about this.
It all suddenly becomes real that I'm doing this.
I'm actually planning on leaving my husband.
A sob violently rips its way out of my chest. The world blurs as tears overflow my eyes and fall down my cheeks. I fold in on myself, covering my face with my hands as I cry—loud and ugly and free.
A wave of sadness washes over me, like being tossed in cold water without warning.
No one is around to see or hear me break, so I let it all go.
I scream and sob and wail and break wide open.
The word divorce hits me like a kick to the throat.
We've always beenWendy-and-Atlas, said like one word. Ever since we were kids, if you saw me, you could bet that Atlas wasn't far behind.
I used to feel so lucky that I married my best friend, my first love, my only. We have two sons, we’ve built an entire life together. I thought I would stay married to Atlas for the rest of my life, both of us slipping away peacefully together surrounded by our children, our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren.
I cry for what we had, for the girl who believed Atlas would always show up, and for the woman who kept waiting and waiting and waiting.
I let myself mourn my marriage.
Then I think of the logistics of divorcing. Just picturing Diane and Emmett's faces when I tell them makes me feel nauseous.
Then I picture telling my sons that they’re going to have to split time between two houses, split holidays, split vacations. Negotiations through custody orders and lawyers.
The thought of missing out on half of my children's lives brings on a fresh wave of tears, of misery.
While it hurts so damn bad, like a searing burn in my chest, it also feels like a release. It’s like pulling a splinter out of yourfinger, a brief flash of pain and then...relief.
The sky is dark by the time I'm done falling apart, so I grab the blanket, put it in the car, and head home.
The drive is made in silence, no music or podcast playing. It almost feels like driving home from a funeral, except the thing that's died isn't a person—it's the version of my life I thought was set in stone.
When I pull into the garage, I'm honestly surprised to see Atlas's truck already there, and it's just another kick to the gut. Confirmation to me that he didn't care enough to show up.
He saw the reminders, and he ignored them.
So, I'm not caring enough to keep this fight going. I will pour all of my energy into two things from now on—my boys and rediscovering who I am.
When I walk through the door, the first thing I notice are the TV and the smell of greasy takeout.
This morning, I had the thought that maybe we could stop on the way home for dinner, a little date night just us two. That has me slamming the door closed harder than I need to—petty, but it feels good.
I keep my feet heavy as I stomp past the living room, up the stairs, and into the bedroom.
"Baby?" I hear him call from the hallway, and I ignore it.
I'm done. Actually, I'm so past done right now.
I practically rip my engagement and wedding ring from my finger and toss them in my jewellery box. Maybe I'll pawn them for some money.
Glancing quickly at the rest of the jewellery in the box, Mother's Day gifts and birthday gifts of years past from Atlas, I wonder how much I could get for all of it. Not enough to get an apartment, but it would be something.
