Tag: marriage

Chapter 12: Perfect Peace And The Rings Come Off

20somethinganddivorced4 Comments

I trust you, God. I trust that you are in control of this situation.

Mr Ex started sending me emails about what he called “The Practical Stuff”.

He wanted the home phone line transferred into my sole name and credit card payment details changed to mine.

“When are you going back to work?” he asked via email. “We have bills to pay and mortgage repayments to meet.”

He also wanted us both to get lawyers. Probably a wise decision on his part, but it hurt. It hurt bad.

Then he arranged an afternoon for him to come by “one final time” to collect the remainder of his stuff.

I knew I had an army of friends praying for me. My phone was flooded with texts of support and Bible verses.

“I give the gift of peace to you – my peace. Not the kind of fragile peace given by the world, but my perfect peace. Don’t yield to fear or be troubled in your hearts. Instead, be courageous!” -John 14:27.

I was sitting at the top of the stairs watching the front door, expecting his imminent arrival and unsure how to act.

Maybe I should do something while I’m waiting? But WHAT?!

Flick through a magazine? Play Tetris on my iPad?

How ridiculous!

So I sat on the top step and prayed for peace. Praying that Jesus would wrap his loving arms around me and give me perfect peace. After all, Jesus is referred to in the Bible as the Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6) so if anyone knows about peace, surely it’s Jesus.

Mr Ex’s car pulled into the driveway. So normal, and yet so strange.

This was my not only my husband, but actually my best friend as well as soul mate walking in the door. But we greeted each other by cautiously saying hello. No hugs or anything like that.

How sad. How truly, truly sad. That two people who once meant the absolute world to each other could get to a stage of coldly greeting the other like a stranger at a bus stop.

We made our way into the lounge room and both sat down. He was distinctly confident this time. He was willing to sit down, for a start. And there was an air of certainty in his body language.

“Essie, sweetheart, I’m not coming back.”

My inner voice screamed a deafening, Nooooo…..!!! THIS IS NOT WHAT I WANT!!!!!!

And that was the moment that the Titanic slipped completely under.

I could feel the death inside me. I could feel the screams. I could feel the agony.

But there was also a serenity. A composure. That very strange juxtaposition of utter turmoil but complete peace. I call that Perfect Peace. It’s a powerful thing. Peace with simultaneous turmoil.

“…the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” -Philippians 4:7.

I think it’s that peace which allowed Corrie Ten Boom to assist many Jews in escaping from Nazi death camps and strengthened her to withstand imprisonment, Martin Luther to stand up to the corruption of an entire church hierarchy which was influencing a nation of people, as well as what empowered my great-grandfather to continue spreading the word of Jesus in a country that was murdering Christians.

I’m certainly not saying that I have any idea what any of that would be like. I don’t. Not even close. But I can see that the Perfect Peace that Jesus promises is a powerful, powerful thing.

“The mountains may move, and the hills may shake, but my kindness will never depart from you. My promise of peace will never change,” says the Lord, who has compassion on you.” -Isaiah 54:10.

Believe it or not, Mr Ex still wouldn’t reveal his girlfriend’s identity to me.  And he still wouldn’t say where he was living. He did say a vague area, but didn’t want to be too specific. I think he was worried that I’d go around there and cause a scene. Or, perhaps more to the point, that my uncle would go around there. Ironic, really. Because I’d known their location, as well as Cosette’s identify, for what seemed like weeks. But Mr Ex had no idea.

Mr Ex said to me, “She’s decided to leave her husband, so I guess you can figure out what that means.”

What that means, hey? Happily ever after for you and Cosette??

I didn’t even have the desire to be angry. I just felt sad.

Not a bitter kind of sad. Just the soul-breaking kind of sad.

“Do you know who I feel sorry for in this whole situation?” I asked Mr Ex. He shrugged, probably expecting me to say my grandmother or my parents, who were all wounded by current events. But that’s not who I had in mind.

“Who?” he asked.

“Andrew.” I replied.

Silence.

Remember, Andrew is Cosette’s husband. And I’d found that out thanks to Facebook.

Mr Ex was staring at me, most probably thinking, “How the hell does Essie know about Andrew? Does this mean she discovered Cosette’s identity?!”  I can’t be sure what was going through his mind at that point, but he had obviously never revealed to anyone the identity of his lover, so I imagine the fact that I was able to refer to his lover’s husband would’ve startled him.

I like to think he shat himself.

But in true lawyer style, he kept a lid on his emotions. Mr Ex is a mastermind at keeping a lid on his emotions at the best of times.

“Yeah, Andrew’s a great guy,” he nodded.

I asked Mr Ex, “So you’re not a Christian? You’ve been faking it all this time? You deserve a Logie!”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll have to address my beliefs at some point in life. But not now.” Then he laughed, “I’ll probably be in and out of a psychologist’s office for the rest of my life.”

“And you’re OK with that?” I questioned, showing genuine care and concern. He just shrugged and laughed.

We chatted. Some kind of weird parallel universe, out of body experience. A calm, serene and sound-mind version of myself who was able to chat reasonably and peacefully with Mr Ex. This wasn’t a stereotypical scorned wife and cheating husband talking.

“What did I do wrong?” I asked. “How did this all happen?”

“Please don’t blame yourself,” he emphasised, compassionately. “This is not about you. You were the best wife. I’ve just been unhappy for a very, very long time. And it’s my fault because I didn’t tell anyone and I didn’t talk about it.”

“Are you living together?” I asked Mr Ex, about his relationship with Cosette. Remember, I knew the answer. I had seen the answer.

“No,” he replied. “But we do spend a lot of time together.”

NO???? Seriously?!?

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE!!!!

Lying to my face is obviously the new norm.

I had seen first-hand that they were indeed living together AND they had rented a flat together because she was transferring monetary payments, entitled ‘rent’, into his bank account. So, I think a blind mouse with his head in a tea pot could confirm that, yes, Mr Ex and Cosette are living together.

But I didn’t feel a need to challenge him.

And I didn’t feel any desire to shove the DVD-footage in his face or spitefully reveal the extent of my knowledge.

Granted, I could have. It was a golden opportunity. And it really does genuinely surprise me – even writing this now – that I didn’t feel the need to sting Mr Ex.

My natural vengeance-seeking heart would normally jump at the chance to burn the people who hurt me. But, this time, I just didn’t feel that.

“Do you love her?” I asked him, calmly. He looked back at me, tilting his head in an ‘I can’t bare to answer that question honestly so I’m just going to look pitifully at you’ kind of way.

“Right.” I whispered, realising the answer to my question.

So, that seemed rather final: My husband has fallen in love with Cosette. Not exactly sure why. No real reasons or definitely explanations given. He wants to be with her, not me. He doesn’t want a life with me. He wants a different life. Simple as that.

“Why don’t you hate me?” Mr Ex asked. “Why don’t you throw my stuff on the street or scream in my face?”

“Because I love you,” I replied, almost puzzled that he would think screaming would be my style. He was uncomfortable with my reply. He moved his gaze and looked out the window, avoiding eye contact with me.

“You’re not making this easy on me, are you.” He added, quietly.

Then we started walking around the house as he picked a few items that he wanted to keep. Just some things from his study, his clothes, a kitchen knife, and a Superman mug.

He also wanted the tent. So they could go on a holiday together.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??????

OK, that stirred up some pretty massive emotions in me. There’s no way on earth that he’s taking our tent for them to go holidaying in.  Just the thought of them getting down and dirty in our tent made me feel physically ill.

But, again, I managed to approach it peacefully.

“I can’t stand the thought of you and Cosette in that tent together,” I told him, calmly.

And he actually seemed surprised that I’d feel that way.

“Don’t dwell on it,” he replied with a rather large grin. Even a bit of a chuckle.

My natural response…

WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?

DON’T DWELL ON IT?!

WAS HE SERIOUS?!?!

DON’T DWELL ON MY HUSBAND HAVING SEX IN OUR TENT WITH HIS LOVER?!

OH, I’M SORRY – MY BAD! YOU’RE RIGHT, IT IS RIDICULOUS TO DWELL ON SUCH A THING.

AFTER ALL, IT IS TOTALLY ACCEPTABLE TO HAVE SEX WITH A MARRIED COLLEAGUE, SO SILLY ME FOR DWELLING ON SUCH AN INSIGNIFICANT MINOR DETAIL.

Turd!

And exhale.

Yes, that’s the real me. And I’d be lying if I said that I ALWAYS go about showing grace to people who hurt me. Because, I don’t. The real Essie shows her face and I get shitted off, especially when I feel hurt or mistreated. The whole peace thing is a journey, not a destination. And some days, I’m better at it. Other days, I fail spectacularly. But, every time I relinquish that natural instinct to irk up, Jesus resurrects me to a new lease of life and peace.

And amazingly, in the moment, dealing with Mr Ex walking around the house selecting objects to keep, I had peace. Perfect peace.

He didn’t take the tent. I appreciated that.

After about 45 minutes, he had what he wanted and was ready to go.

He asked if he could give me a goodbye kiss me on the cheek. I agreed. He put his hands tightly on my shoulders. A quasi hug.

And then I hugged him. A proper, heartfelt hug.

And that was it.

Plot spoiler: I haven’t seen him since.

I spent the next couple of hours just sitting on the sofa contemplating the Titanic’s sinking and I listened to Laura Story’s Perfect Peace on repeat.

Tom and Samara came over that evening to pick me up. Mr Ex and I used to frequent Tom’s family’s monthly dinners. Tom and Samara were happy for me to still go.

Tom was/is Mr Ex’s best friend. When Tom started going out with Samara, Mr Ex and Tom were very keen for Samara and I to get along. And we did! Probably a bit too much! Because we actually became best friends.

Tom owed me no loyalty. After all, Mr Ex and Tom are long-time best mates. So really, Tom would’ve been completely and justifiably warranted in sticking by Mr Ex’s side and giving me sympathy from afar.

But, showing true humanity and unconditional love, Tom and Samara picked me up and took me for dinner with Tom’s family.

As I grabbed my handbag to go with them, I glanced at my rings.

A custom-designed trilogy engagement ring with three diamonds representing past, present and future. And a diamond-studded wedding band designed to fit perfectly around the trilogy ring.

The rings went on in true ceremonial style complete with wedding vows, 150 guests watching on, an elaborate custom silk gown with light pink bow, long pieces of tulle wrapped around chairs, and a veil embellished with Swarovski crystals.

The rings came off with no ceremony. No on-lookers. No amazing dress. And definitely no tulle-covered chairs. Just that juxtaposition of utter turmoil and perfect peace.

An indentation on the skin of my ring finger showed where the rings once majestically sat.

I put them on the kitchen bench and followed Tom and Samara out the front door.

Chapter 10: They are happy!?!

20somethinganddivorced8 Comments

Penny, aka Agent 99 from Get Smart, was on the job within days.

But she was not immediately successful. She was at Mr Ex and Cosette’s workplace, but she hadn’t been able to find Mr Ex’s car AT ALL.

“He is definitely at work today!” she told me. “I’ve seen him, but I can’t find his car anywhere!” And in the time that she was looking for his car, he had disappeared. Oh well. Try again tomorrow. I spent the rest of the evening wondering what tomorrow would bring.

Later that evening though, I got another phone call. This time it was a lady from their workplace, Jillian.

Talk about RANDOM!!!!!!!!!!!!

An angel is disguise, perhaps.

Jillian was ringing to tell me that she had noticed something ‘wrong’ with Mr Ex. And this had been on-going for quite some time. She was genuinely worried about him. Jillian proceeded with caution as she spoke, however I quickly confirmed to her that Mr Ex was having an affair with Cosette, that he had left me, and I had no idea where he was living at the moment.

Jill was absolutely shocked.

She didn’t think for one second that Mr Ex was capable of having an affair or that he could ever actually hurt me.  Join the club!

Jill said that she had recognised unusual patterns in his behaviour and that he was very friendly with Cosette. And since all their offices were made from transparent glass, she would often see that Mr Ex would receive a text message, then send one, and then Cosette in the glass office next door would receive a text message, and then send one. And then – lo and behold! – Mr Ex would receive a text message. And it was apparently like watching a tennis match. Back and forth, back and forth.

Jill had also noticed that whenever Mr Ex and Cosette sat at a table next to each other, their arms would often touch. Or their elbows. Or whatever. Touching. And that’s not a normal colleague-to-colleague interaction. Usually, if someone’s arm is right next to yours, you’d move it a little to give that person some space. But Jill noticed that there didn’t seem to be much concept of personal space between Mr Ex and Cosette.

But, perhaps most convincingly, Jill noticed Mr Ex and Cosette were eating the same brand of tuna and crackers for lunch everyday. And avocado! Gone were the days when Mr Ex would buy a pie for lunch.

So, Jill, being an intelligent human being and using the gift of eyesight, could effortlessly see that there was something going on between them.

Although, Jill didn’t know it was serious. She didn’t expect the Titanic to have struck quite such a massive ice berg. And she certainly didn’t expect the Titanic to be vertical in the water, half under. Critical.

“He absolutely adores you, Essie,” she told me, puzzled. “I’ve seen the way he looks after you lovingly and protects you. He talks about you and your life with total joy. He used to always have a skip in his step when he was going home to you and Rommet. Such a good head on his shoulders. I’ve always admired Mr Ex because he has his whole life on track at such a young age; successful career, a nice house, a loving marriage. Why would he throw that all away?”

Excellent points. My sentiments exactly.

I told her everything. Literally everything. Including about Penny, the P.I.

And, to my amazement, Jill was incredibly supportive of me. She even said that she would do anything to help me and she told me the make and model of Cosette’s car. A bright green Mazda 3!

Penny’s reaction?

“Are you serious?! Bright green?! That’s not even a challenge!”

The next afternoon, Penny found the bright green Mazda 3 within seconds.

“I’ve got it!”  Three beautiful words of success from Penny. As we spoke on the phone on that first day, Penny saw Cosette emerge from the offices and get into her car. Five minutes later, Mr Ex also emerged and walked over to meet her in the car.

So they’re travelling to and from work together. But are they actually living together?

Penny filmed everything. She had the most amazing spy-savvy equipment and she was able to capture everything – every tiny little detail – on DVD. I was regularly in touch with Jill, receiving updates about what Cosette was wearing (to help Penny pinpoint Cosette in a busy crowd) or a text message from Jill as Cosette or Mr Ex were leaving the building so that Penny could be on the ready. A bit of added excitement to their normally mundane workplace.

So, Day #2 of surveillance proved to be very interesting.

Cosette and Mr Ex had a flat. It was nothing special; there was graffiti on the fence out the front, but it was walking distance from the beach. Her bright green Mazda 3 pulled up out the front. She got out the driver’s seat. He got out the passenger’s seat. They both took bags out of the boot and walked inside.

Absolutely no sign of the broken and tormented zombie-like Mr Ex who had been at our house days earlier reluctant to talk. This Mr Ex was jovial. Smiling from ear to ear. Laughing. There was the skip in his step that he used to have with me! He looked smitten. Besotted even.

They are happy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then a few minutes later, they both emerged from the unit in a change of clothes. He was in his holey grey tracky-pants and a daggy, tatty, ridiculously old t-shirt to check the mail box. She followed him out and stood in the doorway, dressed in a baggy skirt and peasant top.

GOOD GRIEF!! 

They’re in the ‘comfy stage’ already?!?!?!?!?!!?!?

Images of my husband partying with a blonde bombshell and sipping cocktails til dawn James Bond-style suddenly melted into the reality of my husband shacked up in a run-down graffiti-covered unit with a 40-year-old.

Next, a short while after, I watched their sofa being delivered. Mr Ex made small talk and joked with the delivery guys. Fuck that!

What would those delivery guys think if they knew the truth about that couple? Do they think Mr Ex is living with his mother?!

I contemplated what I could do.

I know where they live!! I should fucking infiltrate their fucking water supply or put dog poo in their fucking letter box!! (For those tracking the stages of grief, I had worked through ‘bargaining’ and I was now onto ‘anger’).

So, I plotted my revenge and rehearsed what I would say if I showed up at their door step. We all have that uncle – the black sheep of the family – who is good at breaking legs or at least ruffling feathers. I decided I could send him over there to shake things up a little. Or I thought I could spray paint their door with some creative verbs and adjectives to describe their actions. Or, since Mr Ex’s car is parked on the grass around the corner from their unit and a bit out of sight, I thought it might be easier for me to egg his car and cover it with corrosive acid of some kind.  *Evil Mr Burns fingers*

And, yep. There it is!

My excellent revenge-seeking, darkness-loving heart.

My in-built ability to suss out fairness and unfairness, to hold a grudge, and to plot revenge accordingly.

In Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen writes, “It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.”

So… What did I do?

Nothing. Zilch. Zippo. Nada. Nil.

And to Jane Austen’s fabulous quote, I add, “It isn’t what we say or think OR WHAT HAPPENS TO US that defines us, but what we do.”

So I put the Day #2 DVD footage into a hidden drawer, straightened my metaphorical tiara and walked away like a boss.

I cranked up the iPod and played Katy Perry’s Roar on full volume. Do it. You’ll be surprised how it helps.

And it seems that every time I die to my natural inclination to seek revenge or put dog poo in their letterbox, God resurrects me with a new lease of freedom. Over and over. Dying to my darkness-loving heart. And resurrection to peace. Again and again.

The catch? It takes time.

SO many times, I’ve told God, “I’M A PUSSY for not standing up for myself and, dagnamit, Mr Ex and Cosette are GETTING AWAY WITH [what feels like] MURDER!!!!!! WHY HAVEN’T THEY BEEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING?!”

And I’ve wondered, “Why have you left me TOO, God?!? Nothing’s going MY way and I just keep seeing Mr Ex and Cosette in Happy-ville!!!!”

God the Father listens with His unfailing love. God the Holy Spirit is with me, calming me and comforting me, whether I realise it or not. And God the Son has already walked this path, having prayed a similar prayer.

In Matthew 27:46, Jesus’s friend recounts that Jesus cries out from the cross, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” (which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”).

I always thought that God was separate from Jesus. I separated them with my logic and reason. God is Jesus’s father. Jesus is God’s son. That makes them separate.  But I no longer think that’s right.

During His time on earth, Jesus said, “…I am in the Father and the Father is in me” (John 14:11), “For in [Jesus] all the fullness of Deity dwells in bodily form” (Colossians 2:9). God the Son is fully human as well as fully divine. That made sense to me.

So, that is not Father God in a neutral, detached position watching a separate entity in Jesus. That is God right there on the cross.

And that means that God knows what it is like to feel God-forsaken.

They say knowledge is power and yes, Penny’s findings over the course of a month or so did serve the purpose of helping me come to terms with the reality and gravity of the situation. Had I not seen the DVD footage, I would have probably still been hell-bent on reconciliation. But that wasn’t healthy. I needed to come to grips with the magnitude of events. My husband was happy living with another woman; even setting up a bank account with her, buying bottles of wine to share together, buying furniture as a couple, going to see Michael Bublé in concert and making long-term life plans together.

But what really hurt?

Yes, seeing Mr Ex and Cosette acting lovey-dovey like a happily-ever-after couple.

Also, seeing his brothers arrive at their unit with pizza to share for dinner and greeting Cosette with affection. The realisation that his family were accepting his choice of partner. They like her!!

Oh, and Cosette getting Mr Ex’s warm, all-embracing, problem-melting hugs.

That really, really, really hurt.

But, as ghastly as it was to have a voyeuristic view of my husband and his chosen woman, my comfort was knowing that my best friend Jesus was present, grieving with me and He understood. And just like Jesus, I held onto the promises (even when I didn’t feel like it…) that my Father God had made to strengthen me and rescue me.

“So do not be afraid; I am with you. There is no need to fear, for I am your God. I will make you strong and I will help you. I will hold you safe in my powerful hands.” -Isaiah 41:10

Chapter 9: Crazy Lady Alert

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I saw my GP on Tuesday morning and relayed the past four days to her.

“He came yesterday and he looked so broken, just like a zombie,” I explained sympathetically. “He is completely lost. He needs someone to look after him.”

She didn’t look too impressed though. She was undoubtedly thinking he DOES have someone to look after him, hence he’s not at home with you.

“You need to take care of YOU,” she told me.

Going to see a friend for coffee on Tuesday at our favourite coffee shop (trying to keep things as normal as possible), I went to put on my favourite bracelet. I can’t do it with one hand. I put the bracelet over my wrist and tried to balance it on my knee to hold it in place as I struggled to clasp it together with my other hand. Mr Ex had always clasped this bracelet for me. It wasn’t working. I swapped wrists. Still wasn’t working. And that triggered another meltdown.

I JUST WANT TO WEAR MY FAVOURITE BRACELET!!!!!!!!!! WAHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

I was determined though. It took me nearly an hour of crying, trying again, crying, trying again… but I got it. I put that son of a bitch bracelet on.

Mr Ex made contact again on the Wednesday night. At 10:20pm to be exact. How considerate of him. Was he thinking, “I’ll call Essie just as she’s going to bed, so that I can get her all nice and upset and unable to sleep?!” It pointed to more zombie-like, irrational decision-making by Mr Ex.

My heart stopped when the phone rang and I saw his mobile number on caller ID. I sat on the bed. I braced myself that my dreams might be about to come true and maybe he was calling to say that he wanted to come home.

Alas, no.

He was ringing to tell me that he had decided once and for all that he didn’t want a “salvaged relationship” with me. That was the phrase he used. I was crushed. Absolutely crushed. Yet again. As if that’s even possible.

And I still don’t even know where he is!!

The next day, I went through his Facebook friends with a fine tooth comb. I also trawled through his work’s website looking for female employees. In my head, I had decided on the image of ‘her’; a drop dead gorgeous Victoria’s Secret supermodel wearing a figure-hugging mini skirt and sky-high heels. I just needed to find a woman matching that description.

I found one. Stunning. Bright red lipstick. By her Facebook profile, I saw she was newly married. Her name was Isobelle. Gorgeous name. Gorgeous face. Gorgeous body. It must be her. She had a distinctive and unusual surname, plus the initial ‘I’ isn’t the most common of initials, so I looked her up in the phone book. Sure enough, I found her! She lived with her new husband in the same suburb as my parents! Oh, the adrenaline!

That’s where Mr Ex must be staying!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Should I go there? Should I call her? Mr Ex might answer!! I should drive past? Maybe his car will be out the front!

Crazy Lady Alert.

I’m ashamed to admit that I did call her. She answered. But I [luckily] hung up straight away. Totes cray-cray, I know. I was 100% certain it was her and began plotting my plan of attack.

Later that day though, I was hit by a metaphorical bolt of lightning. Even though I’d firmly settled on Isobelle being ‘the other woman’, my subconscious brain must have been working in overdrive for days and finally came to a shocking and very unexpected realisation. One of those brainwaves where you go, Where the HELL did that come from?!?!?

For the past few months, Mr Ex had talked a little about a lady at work. Her name was Cosette. I’d never met her. She was married. No kids. She was 40-ish from memory. A marathon runner. She sometimes went for runs in her lunch break, apparently. Mr Ex told me that she only ate tuna and lettuce for lunch every day. He admired that. He told me once or twice that I should take a leaf from her book. He said that Cosette was older than me (by a fair bit, actually), but she was fit and toned.

For the Christmas just gone, Mr Ex gave me weights as my Christmas present. You know, those colourful girl weights for toning arms or something. No, I’m not kidding.

When he was talking about Cosette from his workplace, I had joked, “Do I need to be worried?” and he laughed. We both laughed actually, because we both knew Mr Ex had an unfailing loyalty to his loved ones. The notion of him cheating was ludicrous. We’re the unsinkable Titanic, remember! Mr Ex stuck by people through thick and thin. Even when people in his life didn’t deserve his loyalty, he stuck by them. He even defended his [what I would’ve called, idiot fundamentalist dickhead] father when his father was making threats to boycott our wedding. So if anyone was not going to have an affair – or if anyone was going to seriously struggle to lie and cheat – it would be Mr Ex.

But Mr Ex had told me in passing that he hoped we could have Cosette and her husband over for dinner one day.

Mr Ex had also recently taken up jogging. Jogging! A new hobby. Why not? I thought. He had invested in new Nike runners, socks, gym shorts, t-shirts and that strange arm-band device that lets you carry your iPod on your arm whilst running. We had a dog, so it would’ve made good sense to take the dog running with him, right? But no, Mr Ex didn’t want to run with our dog. He wanted to run solo. This was a solo thing.

SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It must be HER?!

WHAT THE FUCK?!?

I Facebook stalked her. Sure enough, Cosette was married to a man with a lovely smile. They looked happy. Really happy, actually! In fact, they looked perfect together. His name is Andrew.

I scrolled through their wedding photos. Hey, it’s not my fault she had it all open for the world to see! Her photo albums were all open to public access. Too easy! I saved a few pictures to show family and friends.

I was expecting a stunning fitness model. The ones in the gym adverts on TV who go running with full make-up, crisp clean sneakers that never get dirty, and they never, ever sweat.

To my surprise, Cosette is… well, just a normal person. Just an average, everyday brunette that you’d never look twice at. Yes, she did look older than Mr Ex. And there were photos of her with shaggy hair, no make-up, running in marathons. (Let’s just say that no one looks good when running a marathon and Cosette is no exception.) Cosette could not be found in a Lululemon Athletica catalogue. She did sweat. She did look red in the face. And her arms were not perfectly toned. Definite flab there.

But OK, yes, I’m getting petty now.

Moving swiftly on.

Right on cue, two amazing new people walked into my life. Two very special girls who went on to become two of my best friends. Sana and Bree. They’d heard about my situation from the pastor and his wife. Sana arrived at my front door with a bouquet of flowers and melting moment biscuits. I’d never met the girl before and she’s rocking up at my house with flowers and my favourite biscuits. What’s more, they both lived nearby. Most of my friends were over the other side of town but suddenly I had two new friends who lived only five minutes away showing me love and humanity.

Sana and I talked like we’d known each other for decades. We could talk about deep stuff. We could smoothly transition from a sentence about growing vegetables to a sentence about why God allows bad things to happen. The beautiful thing about these kinds of situations? Authenticity. No one has any effort for artificial conversations. It’s straight to the honest-to-God conversations.

And the best thing? I could see Jesus in them.

I was learning to see Jesus all around. When Rommy the dog would playfully drop a toy at my feet as I was sitting on the sofa in floods of tears, it made me feel warm and fuzzy inside to throw the toy for him and watch him madly scamper to retrieve it. He never tires of playing fetch. And Rommy’s cartwheels, hurdling and acrobatics that ensue never fail to put a smile on my dial. Thank you, Jesus.

My house was covered in wedding photos. Literally. Everywhere. Images of two gorgeous young people. Beaming smiles. A vision of innocence and hope.

“Maybe I should take them down,” I asked Bree. “Is my marriage over or do I keep fighting?”

“You’ll know when it’s time,” she replied.

So, the Titanic wasn’t quite under. It was still in that stage where it’s kind of vertical. Bits have broken off and fallen to the bottom of the ocean. But there are still passengers clinging to the railings above water.

I believe in the sanctity of marriage. I absolutely hate that phrase, but I do believe in what it means. I believe in marriage. I love marriage. I love love. I did NOT want to be separated and I definitely did NOT want the d-word.

But surveying the situation, it wasn’t looking good. I didn’t have any choice at all. There can come a point where you look around and realise that the other person has put down their tennis racquet and walked off the court. Literally vanished. And it’s just you left.

And you can’t play tennis solo.

Right. That’s it! I had decided. I needed to take up Penny’s help. The totes cray-cray lady needs the truth.