holding things up. There are no other emotions left from the marriage itself. I don’t love him, I don’t hate him, I don’t like him. I want him out of my life. He’s controlling this situation, as he did our marriage, because he can. I can’t stand that anyone is controlling me at all, especially him.”
“He’s on a power trip, then.”
“Always has been. But am I over him? Yes. Long ago I was over him.”
“Why did the marriage break up?”
“Definitely at least half my fault. I never should have married him. I was acting as someone I wasn’t, reaching for things I didn’t value, and I worked incessantly to build my career. I was part of an image that I thought, for years, I wanted. Grayson fit into the image. He was the perfect fiancé, and the perfect husband for about three months. We wanted the same things. We had the same interest in work. My mistake.”
“What did you used to do?”
“I was a lawyer in a law firm on a partnership track. He was a partner in another high-powered firm.”
“How’d that go?”
“I was unutterably miserable.”
“And your marriage was miserable.”
“Yes. I won’t get into the sordid details, but I will say that it was the criticism that killed it, an incessant onslaught of negative, until I shut down. Down and out.” I studied the break of the waves, the way the blue-gray water shot out in both directions. “That’s when you know you’re done with a marriage, I think, when there’s no fight in you anymore, no arguments. You acquiesce, you give up, you dive into self-protection mode, arms over your head, knees to chest.
“He went on a business trip once, for four weeks, to New York. That was when I understood, finally, that I had a problem. Sometimes the problem has to leave before you realize you’re in an emotional war zone, fighting to keep yourself together and constantly battling emotional manipulations. What is abnormal and not mentally healthy has become your normal, but you’re too mentally unhealthy to see it. Your normal isn’t normal. It’s not a place where you can grow and live and create. It’s a bad, bad spot.
“When he was gone and I wasn’t constantly ducking for cover around him, and could breathe, and think, and finally be brutally honest with myself, I started to recognize how much my marriage had smothered me.”
“What was the final moment, when you knew you were done with the marriage? Was there a last straw?”
“There was. I told you I loved sewing as a kid with my family. Even my father could sew. During college and law school and my years of building a career, I stopped sewing, I didn’t have time. In the midst of my misery, a year into my marriage, I started sewing again, at night, as soon as I could sneak away from Grayson. It was my only respite, I lost myself in whatever I was making. Soon my uptight lawyer suits had a rim of lace. The skirts had ruffles. The sleeves were embroidered down the sides. I made flowers out of dyed leather and attached them to the toes of my heels. And I sewed dresses, long and flowing or short and snazzy, mostly out of lace, which I love, as I had done with my mom and my sisters.
“Through waves of pain and loneliness living in that barren marriage, in that barren job, I sewed and sewed. In every stitch, every scissor cut, every piece of thread that passed through my fingers, every touch of lace or satin or velvet or leather, I felt myself coming back to me. As if I’d lost her and she’d been packed into a sewing box in my head and the box had been nailed down and hidden.
“To court one day I wore a pink skirt with a ruffle and a bit of taffeta underneath it with a pink lace shirt I’d lined with satin trim, and I knew I was done. Even the judge noted, ‘Hmm ... I think we’re feeling a bit pinkish today, Ms. MacKenzie.’ ”
I laughed out loud; so did Reece.
“I loved that judge. It was a woman and later she called me and asked where I’d bought my suit. That day I
“He’s on a power trip, then.”
“Always has been. But am I over him? Yes. Long ago I was over him.”
“Why did the marriage break up?”
“Definitely at least half my fault. I never should have married him. I was acting as someone I wasn’t, reaching for things I didn’t value, and I worked incessantly to build my career. I was part of an image that I thought, for years, I wanted. Grayson fit into the image. He was the perfect fiancé, and the perfect husband for about three months. We wanted the same things. We had the same interest in work. My mistake.”
“What did you used to do?”
“I was a lawyer in a law firm on a partnership track. He was a partner in another high-powered firm.”
“How’d that go?”
“I was unutterably miserable.”
“And your marriage was miserable.”
“Yes. I won’t get into the sordid details, but I will say that it was the criticism that killed it, an incessant onslaught of negative, until I shut down. Down and out.” I studied the break of the waves, the way the blue-gray water shot out in both directions. “That’s when you know you’re done with a marriage, I think, when there’s no fight in you anymore, no arguments. You acquiesce, you give up, you dive into self-protection mode, arms over your head, knees to chest.
“He went on a business trip once, for four weeks, to New York. That was when I understood, finally, that I had a problem. Sometimes the problem has to leave before you realize you’re in an emotional war zone, fighting to keep yourself together and constantly battling emotional manipulations. What is abnormal and not mentally healthy has become your normal, but you’re too mentally unhealthy to see it. Your normal isn’t normal. It’s not a place where you can grow and live and create. It’s a bad, bad spot.
“When he was gone and I wasn’t constantly ducking for cover around him, and could breathe, and think, and finally be brutally honest with myself, I started to recognize how much my marriage had smothered me.”
“What was the final moment, when you knew you were done with the marriage? Was there a last straw?”
“There was. I told you I loved sewing as a kid with my family. Even my father could sew. During college and law school and my years of building a career, I stopped sewing, I didn’t have time. In the midst of my misery, a year into my marriage, I started sewing again, at night, as soon as I could sneak away from Grayson. It was my only respite, I lost myself in whatever I was making. Soon my uptight lawyer suits had a rim of lace. The skirts had ruffles. The sleeves were embroidered down the sides. I made flowers out of dyed leather and attached them to the toes of my heels. And I sewed dresses, long and flowing or short and snazzy, mostly out of lace, which I love, as I had done with my mom and my sisters.
“Through waves of pain and loneliness living in that barren marriage, in that barren job, I sewed and sewed. In every stitch, every scissor cut, every piece of thread that passed through my fingers, every touch of lace or satin or velvet or leather, I felt myself coming back to me. As if I’d lost her and she’d been packed into a sewing box in my head and the box had been nailed down and hidden.
“To court one day I wore a pink skirt with a ruffle and a bit of taffeta underneath it with a pink lace shirt I’d lined with satin trim, and I knew I was done. Even the judge noted, ‘Hmm ... I think we’re feeling a bit pinkish today, Ms. MacKenzie.’ ”
I laughed out loud; so did Reece.
“I loved that judge. It was a woman and later she called me and asked where I’d bought my suit. That day I
Similar Books
