How I Survived After My Husband Left Me

When I found out my marriage was over, I thought my life was over. As it happens, it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

"Open the door," my dad instructed. "We are out here, and it's urgent."

"No!" I screamed into the phone. "Leave me alone."

I understood what my parents were saying. Two weeks earlier, Phillip, my eight-year-old husband—my high-school sweetheart, best friend, father of my two toddlers, Carrie and Isabelle—had told me he was unhappy. He was going to stay in a hotel for a few days and think. But the days turned into a confused blur of weeks. I knew that we were struggling, but I was so caught up in the day-to-day life of the family that I hadn't seen how bad it was. I missed the small and significant signals. He never let me park in the garage. His car was more expensive, so I’d be outside in the belly of winter scraping the ice off my windshield. I’d wave goodbye as he pulled away. Instead of coming home for dinner like he used to, now he missed the kids’ bath time every night. He was always needed at work dinners, at business meetings that lasted until the wee hours and on frequent trips. When he was home, his eyes were glued to his BlackBerry.

"You haven't seen us all week. Can you put it down for a bit?" I'd plead. He wasn't particularly interested in me, the kids or having more kids like we'd always planned.

"I don't want any more kids. I'm done. I will never change my mind," he told me.

I was devastated. We started attending a marriage counsellor. I believed that we were stuck, that this was typical.

But I had opened the door for my parents and saw the large white envelope in my father's hand. The letter inside that envelope was the end of my marriage. Even though I did not see it at the time, they also symbolized a new beginning.

It is very difficult to convey the intensity of pain you feel when you go through a loss. In an instant, I lost my dear childhood friend, the boy who took me to prom, the man who was able to speak for me more eloquently than I could ever hope to. Missing was the one who accompanied me through my terrifying emergency C-section, the dad who had gotten our baby's very first diaper changed. My dream to have our children learn how to ride a two-wheeler in front of our house together had vanished, along with our dreams to provide our children an African safari vacation when they are teenagers. When I opened that white envelope, the private investigator's report inside told me that Phillip was seeing someone else.

I can never forget his pale face when he was forced to admit his year-long affair with a waitress. His face was so pale it looked as if he had sprinkled flour on it. I had never felt more disappointed, lowered and humiliated. I hated myself for being so unlovable, unwanted and so goddamn stupid. As he glossed over the details of his affair, how he'd bought her gifts and taken her on trips, I knew, standing there in my kitchen, that I no longer loved the man I'd vowed to spend the rest of my life with.

My feelings just died. He apologized, said he'd had an affair because he was unhappy and confused, that he hadn't meant to hurt my feelings and didn't know how to talk about it. He had felt suffocated by the responsibilities of children and had found he was more selfish than he'd realized. He explained to me that he and his girlfriend had parted ways and that he wanted to attempt our marriage once more.

I wanted to sympathize with him, to put myself in his shoes, but I felt only dirty. Humans are supposed to be born with a conscience. There is right and wrong; there can be no in between. I would never have had the courage to lead a double life, to lie every day to the person who loved me most. It was cowardly. Tawdry. Unforgivable. I didn't know him at all.

"How dare you," I spat at him in a voice so raspy I didn't even recognize it as my own. "You disgust me. You're an embarrassment. I hope our kids turn out nothing like you. Get out."

"Can I have one last hug?" he asked.

"F--k you. And by the way, one day I will write about this."

The next day, I tore off all his designer outfits from the wooden hangers in our closet and shoved them into crinkly black plastic trash bags. I ripped wedding photos from walls, took down family portraits. Why did I hate the big one of us kissing as our kids grinned, on our shoulders? Had he slept with her at the time this photo was taken? How old was Isabelle when this affair began? I was constantly trying to do the math. I forced myself to leave only two photos of him—one for each of my children—in the girls' bedrooms. And I thought, Wondering what in the f--k I would do with the 10 packets of custom letterhead I just ordered that have every member of our family caricatured along the top. All of it went into the garage. That night, from my daughter's window, I watched Phillip's shadow crawl out slowly and pack each case into his trunk. I took off my wedding rings for good.

They say there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I wanted to get through all of the stages as quickly as possible—rush the whole process—and forget this ever happened to me. But that is not how it ever occurs. It all hit me simultaneously. My body really ached. I'd be driving and I'd need to pull over. My chest shook with tears. Snot streamed into my mouth. I couldn't stop. I'd beg God—if there even was one—to make the pain stop.

I'd never heard some of these tunes on the radio previously, but now they held significance for me. "You're a liar, a cheat, unfaithful dog / You threw away all our love and trust / It's so hard to see just who you are!" I'd belt out the words to "Amnesia" as I drove down the highway.

As the weeks crawled by, Bruno Mars crooned to me. "I should've bought you flowers and held your hand / Should've gave you all my hours when I had the chance."I tortured myself with visions of what it must be like for my husband and his girlfriend. Do they hold hands? Have special songs and memories of their own? Ever give a thought to me, ever, even once?

My family was around me during those early weeks of being a single mom. My brother Jarrad was constantly at my house, fixing whatever my kids had somehow managed to pull off the wall that day. I didn't know how to maintain a house by myself. My sister came over and tucked my kids into bed on days when I was too exhausted to do it myself. She raided my closet for hideous clothes.

"You have to get rid of all your stuff and spend money on new clothes for all the dates you're going to have."

I couldn't even consider dating. And why couldn't I shop at Anthropologie for flowery crocheted dresses anymore? I enjoyed that store. My brother Daniel would answer the phone at any hour—while conducting business or in the dead of night—to hear me cry. My parents took care of the kids, reassured me that everything would be okay and went with me when I talked with lawyers. I was angry sometimes that they'd gotten a private investigator, but they never wanted to have anything to report.

Phillip's family was different. "Well, at least he man up and is being a good father," his oldest sister, Lisa, told me over the phone.

"F--k you," I wanted to spit, but didn't. When I hung up, I knew I'd never speak to her again.

"You've got to pull up your big-girl panties," my own aunt told me.

"Pull up my big-girl panties?" I wanted to snarl. "You think that's all there is to it? Well, f--k you too."

But that's just what I did. I grabbed my big-girl panties. I started going to therapy, the type of which would not let me feel sorry for myself long enough. She helped me to the very sudden realization that my children needed a happy mommy.

It's not divorce that harms a child; it's parents' fighting that may," she said to me.

My kids did not deserve to have a broken home to grow up in, and I did not want them to ever feel like they had. They were going to have a happy life, and the divorce of their parents was not going to hurt them. I'd heard of a mother who committed suicide when she discovered her husband was having an affair. I'd heard of divorces so bitter the children never recuperated. Goddamn it: That was not going to be our life. Regardless of what it took or how hard it would be, I was going to get back on top.

I started by telling my older child first.

Carrie," I said, getting down on her level so we were face to face. "Not every family is the same. Some have a mommy and a daddy, and some have two mommies, or no mommy and daddy but grandparents. You have a mommy and a daddy who love you very much, but Daddy won't be living here anymore.".

I explained in a single big breath. I kept a close eye on her. Her face shriveled up.

"So I don't have a daddy anymore?" She wrapped her little arms around me and cried.

No, sweetie, of course you do, but now you'll just have two houses and two beds. You still have a mommy and a daddy, but we won't be living together anymore. That's just the way it happens sometimes. It's not your fault. Sometimes mommies and daddies are happier when they don't live together. We're going to be happy," I reassured her.

Though my husband and his mistress got back together, I did not find any purpose in being angry and bitter. I had to let it all go and just move forward. The gym was my outlet. I punched so hard in my cardio boxing class that people stopped and stared at me as if I was the Hulk. I would visualize I was punching Phillip in his stomach.

His girlfriend got punched in the face. Cross-jab-hook-How-could-you-do-this-to-me. Punch punch punch punch punch punch. I would cry sometimes when I punched. I hoped people would think that I was just sweating from my eyes. "If you had to feel what I was feeling, you'd punch this hard too," I wanted to tell them. But I kept punching. I'd work so hard that my lips would turn blue. I was sent to see a cardiologist for a heart test. I knew all along what was wrong.

It's just broken, right, Doc?"

Phillip and I had not bargained for the children. We agreed to have them over to his house for dinner two nights a week and an over-night on every Saturday. He rented an apartment near there and provided them with new beds and Cinderella blankets and toys so they could get used to the new life. That first Saturday evening that I had to leave my children behind, I'd pass by their empty bedrooms.

I wanted to hear them breathing in bed. I wanted to hug them and hug their warm necks. I felt so lonely. I'd become completely lost in my marriage, and now I didn't know what to do with myself on my nights off. Had I made the right choice? Should I have let Phillip come home when he asked to try again? I flipped on the heating pad and burrowed under my blankets. What if I'm alone forever?

I was 32 and felt like I'd gone past my use-by date. Who was going to want to date me and my two kids? Who would love them like I love them and want to live with us? How would I even go about meeting someone, and would they ever truly know me as well as Phillip had? I had no idea.

I shopped. I bought a bunch of high heels, flirty dresses, designer jeans and low-cut tops. I was completely out of my league, but I had lost so much weight—25 pounds in three months—that I needed new clothes anyway.

Better," I'd catch myself saying as I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. The truth was, I'd lost all hunger. I lived on coffee, dark chocolate and plain crackers. My biceps were cut, my collarbones protruded out of my skin, my ribs were showing. I barely recognized my own body.

I was starting to think that our break-up was a blessing in disguise. Getting an STD test led to an abnormal Pap test and a LEEP that most likely saved my life from cervical cancer. I had new friends. I was learning to date. I could walk in the heels my sister had coerced me into purchasing. I had begun taking hot yoga, and when my hunger returned, I nourished my body. I took on extra projects at work and started teaching. I was not afraid of anything. I had already hit rock bottom and knew there was nothing that could be worse than where I'd already been. I felt unstoppable. I called it "The Year of Yes."

"You need me to speak for three hours to 30 students? Fine."

"Oh, you need to ride with me on a motorcycle? Sure!"

"Take a blind date to a pescatarian who is going to order a platter of nachos and a bottle of wine to himself? Alright."

"See you in Miami next weekend? Fantastic!"

Having been dumped by Phillip also made a convenient excuse for all sorts of things, and I was happy to avail myself of it.

"You want me to shell out $1,200 in roaming fees?" I demanded of my cell phone carrier in complete bewilderment. "I'm a single mom with two tiny kids. My husband left me for a waitress. Can you do anything for me at all?"

My bill was halved.

I started to wear my status like a badge of honor. After all, it was me and me alone who took my kids to doctor's appointments and held them while they got their booster shots. It was me who dragged them up to bed by myself when they fell out in the car. It was me who soothed them and cleaned up their vomit at 2 a.m. I scheduled their play dates and activities; I took them on road trips, making a pit stop to see a litter of Labrador puppies just because.

I could almost hear Phillip in my head saying, "Why stop to look at puppies if we're not going to bring one home?" But I was driving; I got to make choices for myself. Once, the front wheel fell off our stroller while we were walking. Once, we were left on the side of a country road with a flat tire. Either way, I got my children home safely.

We sang along to Katy Perry's "Roar" all the way home: "I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fire / 'Cause I am a champion and you're gonna hear me roar." And just when I'd finally accepted that my marriage was truly over, I met Steve. We were set up on a blind date by a mutual friend and after emailing and talking on the phone—odd in this era of dating—we met one night after work for a drink. I wasn't expecting to meet someone I would really enjoy.

I was having fun. I didn't need a boyfriend, not yet. But Steve was different. He was laid back, patient and listened. He was a wonderful dad, too, and listening to him sing "Happy Birthday" to his niece on the phone made me melt. He was a single father raising his daughter with his family but acted like my story was worse.

He heard every word I had to say, gazed at me like he'd never seen anything so beautiful, held my hand and brought a package of insoles when I'd completed a 12K run and couldn't walk. He opened doors for me; he told me I was intelligent and amusing. He was astonished when I said I had never been offered the garage.

I knew on the second date that if he held a door open for another girl I'd be angry."Call off the other dates," I commanded. "You're with me now."

I worry occasionally that Steve will decide he's had enough of us, that he'd rather be with someone else. "I'm not going to leave you. I'm not Phillip," he tells me. I trust him.

When my kids are old enough to know the truth, I hope they'll understand the decisions I've had to make and how hard I've fought for their happiness. I want them to witness a good marriage and know what it's like to celebrate a wedding anniversary. Maybe someday we'll all be singing a different Bruno Mars song.