I’ve often said to close friends—probably too casually—that divorce is harder than cancer. Here is what I mean.
I was married to Don, the love of my life, for thirteen years. We had two young children and had built a life of goodness, chores, spontaneity, challenging days, a vast circle of friends, and what I thought was a deep anchor of gratitude for living out so many of our ideals. Our home was in Seattle, in a house on the Magnolia bluff, with a view of Elliott Bay. Occasional tourist buses would circle our neighbourhood to get one of the city’s proudest views of the water. I sometimes passed those buses as I jogged along a path looking over the sea. Should anyone live in a neighbourhood that tourists like to visit? Whenever this thought hit me, I would stop to walk: How does gratitude sit close to passing guilt?
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