I was married for ten years, and my divorce came through this morning. A big day, then – a mountain: the day on which a terrible incision has, at long last, been sutured.
I loved my husband very much. I loved him for years, and through improbable complications. I am no longer in love with him and haven’t been in love with him for a long long time, but I am not sorry that we married. Even knowing how it ended, I would do it a thousand times over because my daughter was the flower of our union and also because I loved him. He made me happy and then he stopped making me happy, but that isn’t a crime. In the end, neither of us was able to bring out the best in the other. Not true love then, but love nonetheless.
When I wrote my vows, I was very specific.
“I vow,” I wrote, “to make you as completely happy as I can.”
“I vow,” I wrote, “to search for truth with you and through you.”
“I vow,” I wrote, “to honour you, and always to honour your memory.”
My consciousness of the limitations of our relationship in this document is obvious to me only now, but my understanding of the importance of honour in marriage was conscious even then.
Ten years ago, two people came together and now they have come apart. The unravelling of that love story is a narrative ordinary in its suffering and sorrow, but the conclusion, like the beginning, is infused only with light.