My husband moved out of our house last weekend. And when he did, I felt so…alone. His books, clothes, and toiletries are gone. The only trace of him are the photos of us together, smiling into the camera, taken 11 years ago when we were so in love. I put the photos in a box and closed it tightly.
The first 48 hours were the worst. I cried every time I came home to an empty house, and not just because I am now responsible for all the rent and bills. The emptiness of the house reflected the emptiness inside me. He was gone, both literally and figuratively.
But then, on the third day, I arranged the house the way I wanted it. I burned some lavender in the aroma burner. I opened the windows for half a day to let the fresh air in. The house looks nice. I feel better. I haven’t cried since.
We still have to get divorced, but I feel that the first step, and probably the hardest, is over. Him moving out was symbolic of the end of the relationship. The rest is just paperwork.
I’m beginning to get a sense of the freedom of living alone and being single. I can do anything, whenever I want, and with whoever I want. Whenever my thoughts slide into the past, I bring them back to the present, sometimes easily, sometimes forcefully.
I am alone. But I am also free.