A Year From Today

My divorce lawyer’s last name was Makepeace.

Really.

In Mr. Makepeace’s office, my soon-to-be ex-husband and I divvied up our property and worked out child custody plans—moving closer to separation, not peace. Once, when my husband stepped out of the room, I could not hold in the sorrow. My denial failed and became a messy display of tears and snot and hiccups. The harder I tried to pull myself together, the more I fell apart. Makepeace sat back in his chair and waited. I apologized, but he brushed it off with a wave of his hand.

Have you been there—so traumatized you can’t even function? Are you there now? I’m sorry. It’s lousy. I hate to even think back to that memory, let alone talk about it. But I will in case you don’t have a Makepeace in your life to say what you need to hear...


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