My life became a blur.
Not the kind with a fast-forward soundtrack and meaningful montages, just static.
I couldn't tell you anything truly significant that happened between my daughter's birth and her first birthday. It's just… gone. A foggy mix of survival, routine, and repression.
I'm sure there were fights.
I'm sure there were days he hurt me.
I'm sure I cried.
I just don't remember most of it.
My body was in motion. My heart was on mute. My brain hit record and then hit delete.
But one moment still slices through the fog like a lightning bolt.
We were in the van, both kids strapped into their car seats, both asleep. I was in the passenger seat. We were talking about nothing. Just small, everyday filler: dinner plans, base updates, something about a show we weren't really watching.
And then he snapped.
No warning. No buildup. Just rage.
His voice went from casual to volcanic in seconds. Then his hand followed.
He swung. Hard. Fast. Wild.
He caught a chunk of my hair, yanked it hard, and ripped it out.
I didn't scream. I didn't even react right away. I just sat there, stunned, feeling the sting bloom on my scalp like a flower made of fire.
He claimed it was an accident. Like that made it better.
Maybe the hair part was. But the swing? That wasn't.
I was just grateful the kids were asleep.
They didn't see it.
But they still woke up when I cried.
My tears always woke them up.
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February came. And with it, my daughter's first birthday.
I wanted it to feel special. Even if everything else felt heavy.
So I threw her a little Valentine's-themed party. Her birthday isn't on Valentine's Day, it's just after, but I wasn't going to let that stop me from raiding the clearance section at Walmart.
Red and pink hearts. A cheap plastic tablecloth. Some balloons that barely floated.
It looked like love.
Even if I wasn't sure what that word meant anymore.
A few days later, my husband deployed again.
It was his third deployment. Second one since I'd been with him.
But this time, he wasn't going somewhere "dangerous." Just a nearby border country. Nothing active. Nothing explosive. At least, not outside our marriage.
I wasn't worried about where he was going.
I was more focused on the silence he left behind.
Raising two kids under the age of two by myself was…
not great.
There were whole days we didn't change out of our pajamas. Whole weeks where the only adult voice I heard was the one narrating Dora the Explorer.
I knew all the episodes. I could've voiced Swiper myself.
But they were fed.
They were clean.
They were safe.
And for that season, that had to be enough.
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Even thousands of miles away, he still expected me to be available. On call. On demand. As if I wasn't neck-deep in diapers and Dora plot twists.
He'd video chat at random times and act hurt if I didn't answer. Or worse, if I looked tired.
But I tried. I really did.
When I ran out of things to say, I just handed the phone to our toddler.
He'd tell his dad everything he remembered from that day's episodes. Plot recaps. Character theories. Songs.
It became our default connection.
Which is why what happened next felt so…
impossible.
It was 2:00 a.m. when the message hit.
I didn't see it. I was asleep. Because of course I was. I had two babies.
It wasn't a text.
It wasn't an email.
It was a public post on my Facebook wall.
"I no longer feel the same way I did. I'm not in love with you anymore. I want a divorce."
He didn't message me.
He didn't call.
He broadcasted it.
Like it was a status update.
Like our life, our marriage, our children, was some performance he could just bow out of in front of a virtual crowd.
I didn't wake up to the sound of a notification.
I woke up to my sister calling.
"Have you seen your Facebook?"
That question alone made my blood run cold.
I opened my laptop with a rising sense of dread.
My fingers moved slower than my heartbeat.
And then there it was.
Right there. Public. Posted for everyone to see.
My heart stopped.
My lungs forgot how to work.
My sister asked if I was okay.
I was not okay.
I didn't cry, not right away.
I just stared at the screen, blinking, trying to make it make sense.
Comments had already poured in. Some confused. Some supportive. Some nosy.
I didn't even read them.
I just deleted the post.
Deleted it like it might delete the pain.
Then I went into settings and locked everything down.
No tagging. No wall posts. No one could speak for me again.
Pro tip: turn that setting on now. You never know when someone you know or love will try to humiliate you in front of everyone.
He called that night.
I was still reeling. Still raw.
I asked him why. I asked him how.
I asked him if there was someone else.
"No," he said. "I just don't love you anymore. I don't feel anything for you. I deserve better."
That line landed like a slap.
I deserve better.
Like I was some worn-out secondhand version of a woman.
And the worst part?
I believed him.
Because deep down, I already thought there was something wrong with me.
He just said it out loud.
He didn't just break up with me. He made it public. He changed his relationship status to "Single" immediately after.
Like it was a celebration. A release.
I didn't play along. I just deleted my relationship status altogether.
No one needed to watch me bleed online.
I called my parents. Told them everything.
They didn't hesitate. My mom offered to help me file for divorce.
So I went to a lawyer in town.
I remember sitting in the office, feeling like I was watching myself from outside my body.
I had a diaper bag over one shoulder, tears crusted on my cheeks, and nothing left in me but nerves and caffeine.
When I told her how he ended it, how he used Facebook to detonate our marriage, she didn't look surprised.
She just looked furious.
Furious on my behalf.
Like she'd seen this before, and it still made her sick every time.
"You deserve better," she said.
I nodded.
But I didn't believe her either.
I filed for divorce that day.
Signed the papers with shaking hands and hollow eyes.
But that wasn't the end.
Not even close.
Because I didn't actually get divorced for another year and a half.
And for every day of that, I still had to hold up the pieces of a life that had been shattered in public.