I Want a Divorce

2. Emotions

The drizzle fell softly over me. I hadn’t bothered to grab an umbrella before leaving the house; I preferred to feel the droplets striking my face. I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel at the moment. My marriage was in a dreadful place, and I couldn’t even bring myself to talk to my husband about it. There was no comparison between this stage of our married life and when we first got married.

Looking back, the truth is that things had started to change after our children were born. And no—I didn’t regret a single minute of having Alana and Benny in our lives. Not even for a second. It would be foolish to try to blame something that didn’t make sense. I didn’t think it was my children’s fault. I never did. I only knew that their birth marked the moment when he began to change. At first, I told myself it was because of how small and fragile our first baby had been. But as the years passed, I realized that what lay between us was more than exhaustion—it was an abyss widening quietly, year after year.

Ivo had started to have more and more work as the children grew. That wasn’t wrong. We needed stability. We needed income. What truly frustrated me was that, as a woman, I no longer felt I could count on him. I felt as though I were begging for crumbs of affection he kept carefully guarded, as if love had become a limited resource he rationed sparingly. I longed for simple things: to feel loved again, to be held without asking, to hear him tell me I looked beautiful, to share time together like we used to when we were dating.

I pushed those thoughts aside as I approached the grocery store entrance. I didn’t want to keep circling something that made me so unhappy. I would talk about it later with my psychologist during next week’s session. None of the exercises she had suggested had worked—not because I hadn’t tried, but because my husband didn’t even make the effort to share time or space with me. Communication required two people willing to sit in discomfort, and lately I felt as though I was the only one sitting at the table.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and baked bread. A police officer standing near the entrance smiled politely as he handed me a shopping cart and welcomed me in. I returned the courtesy with a small nod before walking down the aisles, placing a few items into the cart that I remembered we needed. Pasta. Eggs. Fruit the children liked. At the same time, I rummaged through my purse for my phone. My shopping list was saved there, and I also wanted to call my friend David. I needed a distraction, and he was the only one who truly knew how I felt. He had known me long before I was anyone’s wife or mother.

Where is it? I brought it with me. I’m sure I put it in one of my pockets.

I kept slipping my hands into every pocket of my coat, distracted and careless, completely neglecting where I was steering the cart, until a metallic crash startled me, followed by a sharp, energetic cry. The sound pierced through the ambient music and chatter like glass shattering.

My head snapped up.

On the other side of my cart stood a woman around my age, glaring at me with fierce brown eyes. The tension radiating from her was almost tangible, like a lioness guarding her cub. Before I could open my mouth to apologize, she snarled.

“Watch it, i***t! How can you not look where you’re going?”

Her words stung, but it was the venom in her tone that pierced deeper. It felt disproportionate and yet, somehow, I understood it.

She turned to the inside of her cart and lifted a small child into her arms. “Did you get hurt, my love? It was this stupid woman who didn’t bother to look where she was walking. It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re fine. Did it hurt?”

When our carts collided head-on, the baby’s forehead had struck the metal bar. A faint imprint of the grid was already visible on his delicate skin. That was enough to break me. The tears I had been holding back all morning spilled over without warning.

“I—I’m so sorry,” I whispered, lowering my head to hide my face. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Just go away,” she said without looking at me. “What are you waiting for? Leave.”

I obeyed immediately. Shame crawled up my neck and settled behind my eyes. I slipped between the aisles, my vision blurred. A few minutes later, I realized my phone wasn’t with me at all. I hadn’t brought it from my nightstand after all. The realization made me feel even worse—careless, irresponsible. I rubbed my face with both hands, trying to keep from crying again, but everything inside me felt too heavy. I wanted to run. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to freeze in place and stop existing for a while.

A sob escaped my lips before I could stop it. I felt stupid—exactly what she had called me. Defeated. I was tired of being strong, of wearing the social mask that women are molded into from childhood: smiling, stoic, delicate, agreeable. Capable, but never demanding. Loving, but never needing too much.

A hand resting gently on my shoulder brought me back to the present. I turned and found the same woman standing behind me, holding out a tissue.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured softly. “My son is fine. It was just a bump.”

I forced a tight smile, trying to compose myself. Now that I looked at her properly, she was stunning. Tall and slender, black hair gathered into an elegant bun, copper-toned eyes framed by long lashes. Her porcelain skin needed barely any makeup. She carried herself with quiet grace. A small smile curved her lips, and something about it made me feel, strangely, that I could trust her.

She insisted on offering the tissue. I nodded gratefully and took it, dabbing at my cheeks and nose. I avoided meeting her gaze directly, still embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, reaching for a box of pancake mix and placing it into her cart. “I’ve had a terrible day and I took it out on you. I’m just so angry. It’s not your fault. I just… sometimes I explode.” She rubbed her face, searching for words. “My husband and I argued this morning. Honestly, ever since our son was born, it feels like he’s done nothing but leave me alone. It’s as if I’m… I don’t know… contaminated or something.”

The word lingered between us like smoke.

She sighed and gently stroked her baby’s cheek. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You probably don’t care. I guess I just needed to tell someone.”

I stared at her, surprised. She seemed almost unreal in her beauty; it was hard to believe she could struggle the way I did. My hair was brown, my eyes green. I was about her height, though her heeled boots gave her a few extra inches. I had fuller lips and a medium build. I had never been the thinnest woman, nor the most curvaceous—even back in university when I studied chemistry. I had always been average. Invisible in rooms unless I spoke.

The squeak of her cart wheels pulled me from my thoughts. She began to walk away, graceful even in retreat. Before turning the corner, she paused.

“My name is Deniska,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady. She smiled as if waiting for me to respond, but when I didn’t, she gestured vaguely down the aisle. “I’ll be…”

She nodded, an unspoken code between women that said she would continue shopping.

I picked up the same pancake mix and followed her into the next aisle. I needed to apologize properly. Maybe she needed someone to listen without judgment, just as I did.

But when I turned the corner, the aisle was empty.

I continued shopping—cereal, milk, cheese—thinking about what I should have said. Maybe this was a lesson. Maybe this silence was exactly what happened with my husband: whenever I needed to speak, I froze. Words formed too late. Feelings stayed trapped inside me until they hardened.

I had always needed time to process my emotions. I overthought everything. I was raised to believe that my surroundings were my responsibility, that every word I spoke carried enormous consequences. That love would fix everything. That marriage would be a dream if I tried hard enough.

Meanwhile, I had watched my father and brothers speak without thinking, raise their voices without apology. No one questioned them. No one asked them to soften themselves.

Amid the hum of shoppers and soft music, I heard the baby fussing again. The sound guided me to their location. I inhaled deeply and walked toward it, determined to try—to respond directly to something, like my psychologist had suggested.

Deniska stood with her back to me, rocking her rosy-cheeked child. I approached quietly.

“Deniska?” I said gently. “It looks like the bump might still hurt. May I help?”

Without hesitation, she placed the baby into my arms and reached for a snack from the shelf.

Holding him stirred something inside me. Benny was eight now, Alana five. They no longer fit so easily against my chest. I remembered how I used to cradle them, singing lullabies in the dim light of their bedroom, breathing in that sweet baby scent that seemed to hold the entire universe in it.

“My name is Regina,” I said softly as the baby reached toward my face, his tiny fingers brushing my cheek. “I really am sorry. I wasn’t paying attention earlier…”

“Would you like to have coffee with me?” she interrupted abruptly, her eyes glassy, vulnerable in a way that mirrored my own.

For a moment, I was stunned. It didn’t seem like she had heard anything I said.

Something shifted inside me. Perhaps it was recognition. Empathy. Or maybe it was simply the exhaustion of carrying everything alone for so long. I saw myself in her— her loneliness, her quiet desperation, the fragile pride barely holding her together.

“Yes,” I said before I could overthink it. “I would.”

And for the first time that day, the drizzle outside didn’t feel so cold anymore.