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The end of my marriage did not arrive with an argument or a tearful conversation across the kitchen table. It came in an envelope.
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.
As I read through the documents, my hands began to shake. He was not only asking for a divorce. He was also seeking full custody of our ten-year-old daughter, Harper.
In that moment, the room felt very quiet. Not peaceful quiet, but the kind that makes your ears ring.
