The Blessing of An Amicable Divorce
I talked to my ex-husband last night and realized I've known him now for 25 years, almost half my life. In my volatile family, that's a long time to know someone ... and still be talking to them.
I like him. He drives me crazy, but I like him.
And I love his mother, who taught me her version of what it is to be a Jewish woman ... and made me proud to be so. (She'd asked him to tell me she missed me. I miss her, too.)
She's intellectual, bull-headed, quirky, still doing yoga. And proud possessor -- at the age of 71 -- of a literary agent shopping around her first book. You go, girl.
So, after fourteen years of marriage and nine years of divorce, it's strange -- and nice -- to realize there's still a bit of family left there. Still a connection. It didn't all blow up in hatred and acrimony; I didn't lose everything of value, I didn't waste all those years.