“How did I end up here?” I asked myself. I was sitting alone outside a Douglas County courtroom in Omaha, Nebraska. The question had double meaning: “How did I end up in Omaha?” as well as “How did I end up in a divorce?” Both lawyers were down the hall hashing out weekend visitation for two innocent victims, holidays, and whether or not he gets to keep the china. The murals above me of pioneers coming to Nebraska provided no metaphors for the day. Nothing poetic. It’s Divorce Day. Court Day. How weird. I came through the doors a married woman, but will leave this building single. Never thought I’d be doing this. Never thought our love story would end like this. Glad I wore black today. Glad I came alone. No one should witness this. Today Hope will die.
“He’s shot himself…He didn’t make it…” said the voice on the other end of the phone. It was December 17, 2007. One week before Christmas. The call came from the New Wife. She’d been married to my ex-husband for about 18 months. He and I had been married for 20 years. He was the father of our two sons. And now he was dead. First words out of my mouth:
“What am I going to tell the kids?”