A DIVORCE IN THREE ACTS

The end of my marriage unfolded in stages. The pain and uncertainty of the first two didn't prepare me for the revelation of the last.

- PETER CARLIN

MY WIFE AND I HAD BEEN IN couples counseling for a decade when our therapist called it quits. In the previous session, she'd told my wife—let’s call her Vicki—that Vicki wasn’t The Boss and our partnership was a collaboration, but The Boss rejected that notion.

“This is who I am,” she said. It was her anthem. We sat on opposite sides of the couch. Vicki leaned away from me, finding some fascination in the flooring. On the end table on my side was a small, sad succulent I sometimes stared at. I tried to figure out if it was fake.

The therapist sighed and waited for us to continue. We didn’t say anything.

After a pause, she said, “I've been going over my notes and thinking about our last sessions and coming to the conclusion that you two would benefit more from individual therapy.” What she really meant was Go be individuals, not a couple. And with that, we were fired.

HOW HAD IT COME TO THIS? WHEN WE MADE our wedding vows, we were all in—I was so sure I would grow old with this person. But I came to realize, about halfway into our 20-year marriage, that growing old meant You grow your way, and I'll grow mine.

At first we were having so much fun that we had no reason to reflect on those qualities that would prove challenging later. I liked to have a good time, but I always overdid it. She was a woman raised to make her own decisions, stand her ground. Her militantly single mom taught her that she didn’t really need a partner, certainly not a man. Her dad modeled marriage for her by having three of them.

I was verbose, complicated, and raised by artists who were financially comfortable but uneven, an unsettling paradigm for Vicki. Her individualism hardened into a resistance to vulnerability and a partnership liability, even more so when we became parents to two girls.