The Stuff On The Wall

A Snippet From My Memior - Chapter 6

I stood in the middle of our bedroom, staring at the stuff on the wall. My husband had just called to tell me he was leaving—five months shy of our 18-year wedding anniversary. Eighteen years with my best friend, and he was telling me he wasn’t coming back home. He had left for work to Ohio three weeks ago. At home in Florida, I stared at the stuff on the wall—our stuff—and for a moment, I got lost in it.

There was a picture of our family, the four of us walking on the beach hand in hand in matching outfits. I remembered vividly, we spent that day in a beach suite with our daughters and a photographer.

In the center was a photo of us renewing our vows in the Bahamas just a year ago. I remembered how we had a little Bahamian marijuana in the middle of the pool under the bridge and waterfall at four in the morning, laughing and kissing and talking. We ended up on the beach---watching the sunrise.

Below it, a map dotted with pins, marking all the places we talked about going together. I remember falling in love with the idea of visting Seychelles because he was so passionate about taking me there.

Nearby, a framed plaque commemorating when he became a Bishop. I remembered how proud he was that day.

Then, there were the black and white note cards he wrote me, each one detailing something he loved about me.

A framed quote reminded us to laugh, giggle, sing, be grateful, embrace one another, and take a moment. I stared at the stuff on the wall—all that we’d built together—and I couldn’t comprehend why he didn’t want what we’d built.

Eighteen years, and he didn’t think enough of me to tell me to my face. That realization sank in deeply, leaving me numb, unable to feel my body or think straight.

I sat on the bed in silence for hours, confused, replaying his words and his tears in my mind:

“I need a break.”

“I need to figure out who I am.”

“I still want to be your friend.”

“I still want to make love to you.”

“You have loved me deeply.”

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

As I sat there, staring at our life on the wall, my thoughts came rushing in all at once:

“Something has happened.”

“Someone has happened.”

“Something is wrong.”

“What just happened?”

“Did my husband just call me and tell me he’s leaving?”

“What did I do wrong?”

“This can’t be right; we’ve planned a whole life together.”

“He’s going through something; he’ll come back to himself.”

“Give him time.”

“Why would he do this to our family?”

“I’ve only loved him.”

“How do I tell our children?”

“I can fix this.”

I thought back over the last few months—the pressure of losing the restaurants, the financial strain, the little arguments, the two big ones. I thought about how we had just took our girls camping. I remembered how we made love the day he left, twice. How he looked me in my eyes and told me loved me. I was very confused.

The weight of it all pressed down on me as I stared at our stuff. This life we built together, through the highs and lows, the grief, and the joy—we did it all together. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t want it anymore. Didn’t all the stuff we did together count? Finally, I let out a sob deep from my belly.

I was just 19 when I met him. He was my first real boyfriend. I didn’t know adult life without him. I was scared and unsure of what next even looked like.

But one decision I made that day: I decided to leave the stuff on the wall. How could I tell our children their dad wasn’t coming home? How could I tell them I didn’t know what was going to happen next? I wasn’t ready to face those questions, to tell them the truth.

My marriage was ending, and all I could do was stare at the stuff on the wall.

A few days later, after not calling his children for a few days, I called him around 9:00pm to ask him how we would tell the girls. A woman picked up the call and immediately addressed me by name, giving the impression that she was familiar with me. As she spoke and raised her voice, it became apparent that she was well-informed about me, my children, and our circumstances. Unfortunately, her information was largely inaccurate, sparking a heated and intense argument between the two of us. In other words, I went OFF.

At that moment, alot of my questions were answered. Another woman was involved. Despite me recently learning that my marriage had ended a week ago, he informed her that his divorce was nearing completion, that I was unwilling to return his possessions, and that I was preventing him from seeing his children. None of that was true.

Before I could tell my friends and family, he shared images of them on his social media platform. I felt so humiliated. A few weeks later, on Mother's Day, he remained silent - no call, no text. On that same day, he proposed to the other woman who was apparently pregnant. I was numb.

There was no picture on the wall to represent the difficult times, but those memories existed too. We faced numerous challenges together - grief, the heartbreaking loss of our children, eviction, infidelity, therapy, abuse, mistreatment, and financial struggles. We knew what it was like to have it all, yet we also shared the experience of having nothing. I was mistaken to believe that our bond was fortified by those hardships that we conquered together.

I found myself returning to that wall, searching for answers that weren’t there. Asking myelf, what I had done wrong. The memories stared back at me, frozen in time, while my life crumbled around them.

Not long after Mother’s Day, I finally took down the first frame. It was difficult—each piece I removed felt like I was releasing a dream I had clung to for so long. But as the wall grew emptier, I began to feel a bit lighter, as if the weight of what was lost was making space for something new.

Although it wasn't the ending I had envisioned, it marked the start of a new chapter. A chapter in which I would discover how to navigate life independently, to reconstruct, and to define myself beyond the roles I had embodied for a long time. The wall was empty for a while after that, just blank. Now it's a fresh canvas adorned with new memories, new aspirations, and new dreams.

I didn’t realize it, but a war was brewing between us—a war of truths and lies. I thought the worst was over but the war was just beginning. It was a battle I wasn’t prepared for, it shattered me, and my children became casualties of it.

A snippet from my memoir- Chapter 6