This was not what she wanted, but then, here she was. Her attorney was looking at her intently. The question had been asked, and she had to answer: “Why do you want a divorce?”
How could she answer? Should she say that her life had become unbearable? But what did that mean? If she told the truth, would it make her out to be the one doing the wrong?
After all, there really wasn’t anything especially wrong with her husband. He worked and provided for her and their two children. He liked to go out a couple of nights a week with his co-worker friends, but most men they knew did. Of course, she liked to go out, too and not just to visit with her church friends. But he didn’t like that. In fact, what was wrong was how he didn’t want her to enjoy herself in any way.
But she knew that many women were in the same place, and they endured their husbands and their situation as housewives. Why was she different? And was her difference bad?
She wasn’t bad. She didn’t care what anyone thought. She was who she was, and her husband didn’t like her.
But could she say that?
“I want a divorce because my husband doesn’t like me,” she answered. The attorney, a dark haired, dark-eyed, plain woman in a stiff skirt suit looked at her intently.
“What do you mean, he doesn’t like you?” she inquired.
“I mean,” Leta repeated, “he doesn’t like me.”
“In the bedroom?”
“Yes, that and—“
“But you have two children.”
“My youngest is six.”
“Has it been that long?”
The attorney started to write notes.
“Sporadic, usually when he’s been drinking.”
“Does he drink a lot?”
“No, no, not really.”
“But he does drink?
“Yes. And…”
“And…” The attorney leaned forward. Leta froze. “You don’t need to be nervous. You can tell me.”
Leta looked hard at the lawyer with the intense gaze. It was time for her to decide. This was it. Once she started talking, once she gave the details there was no turning back. In her mind’s eye, she saw her daughter and her son—what the change this would have on them. Ralph wasn’t a great father to them. He barely noticed them. He didn’t even know them at all, and what he did know, he didn’t like. He thought that their daughter was growing up too fast (like she could help it), and that their son was a simpering mama’s boy. Just like you! Leta thought, regularly annoyed her that her husband couldn’t see the similarity. Then she thought of him—her husband—glowering at her when she came home from a church activity, complaining about the food she prepared for supper, sweating in his easy chair after work and refusing to wash up, looking at her as if she were trashy.
And she knew she could do it.
No comments:
Post a Comment