The divorce left me with a lot of things.
A settlement check that felt like blood money. A three-bedroom house I couldn’t afford but refused to give up. An overwhelming sense of failure that crept in every time I looked at the empty side of the bed.
What it didn’t leave me with was anyone to help me move.
My parents are dead. My friends all picked his side – apparently “he works so hard” matters more than “he f****d his secretary for two years.” My sister lives across the country and couldn’t get time off work.
So here I am.
Thirty-four years old. Newly divorced. Struggling to carry a box labelled “KITCHEN - HEAVY” up the driveway of my new house while sweat drips down my back and my arms shake from the effort.
I make it three steps before I have to set it down.
“Fuck.” I wipe my fo
