After more than fifty years of marriage, I decided I wanted a divorce. At seventy-five, I felt I had spent my entire life as someone’s wife and mother, never truly living for myself. Charles, my husband of decades, loved me deeply, but I had grown distant and resentful. I picked fights, accused him of controlling me, and finally asked for a divorce. To my surprise, he agreed, perhaps believing it was what I needed.
After signing the papers, our lawyer invited us to dinner. There, Charles ordered for me as he always had—dimming the lights and choosing a salad. I was furious, convinced he was still trying to control my life. I lashed out and left him.
That night, I packed and moved out. Charles, heartbroken and confused, wrote me a letter explaining that everything he did—dimming the lights, ordering carefully—was to protect my sensitive eyes and fragile health. When I ignored his calls, he suffered a heart attack.
Rushing home, I found his letter and finally understood his love had never been control, only care. At the hospital, I begged for forgiveness. I realized too late how anger had blinded me. Thankfully, he survived—and I chose love over pride.
