The end of my marriage did not arrive with an argument or a tearful conversation across the kitchen table. It came in an envelope.
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No warning. No discussion. No suggestion of counseling or even a difficult talk. Just a plain envelope delivered to my office, slipped onto my desk while I was in a meeting. Inside were legal papers, neatly organized. On top was a small sticky note, written in familiar handwriting: “Please don’t make this difficult.”
That was my husband, Caleb. Always careful with his words. Always polite when he wanted to be cutting.
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