The divorce papers arrived on a Tuesday morning, delivered by a young man who looked embarrassed to be handing them to a 64-year-old woman in a floral apron who was still holding a cup of coffee and trying to understand why her husband of 42 years was seeking dissolution of marriage due to irreconcilable differences. I read the legal document three times before the words penetrated the shock that had settled over me like a thick fog. Robert Stevens, my husband, the father of my three children, the man who’d promised to love me until death do us part, was filing for divorce.

Not separation, not marriage counseling. Divorce. “Ma’am, I need you to sign here, acknowledging receipt,” the courier said gently, apparently recognizing the expression of someone whose world had just shifted off its axis.

I signed with a shaking hand and closed the door, leaning against it as if I could somehow keep reality from entering our home. Our home that we’d bought 38 years ago when Jessica was still a toddler, where we’d raised three children and hosted countless family gatherings, where just last week I’d been planning our 43rd anniversary dinner. The house was quiet except for the tick of the grandfather clock Robert had inherited from his parents and the distant sound of Emily, my eight-year-old granddaughter, playing in the backyard while Jessica worked from home in the spare bedroom that had become her makeshift office during her divorce proceedings last year.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d been supporting Jessica through her own divorce, helping with child care and emotional support, never imagining that I’d soon be facing the same devastating experience of having a marriage end without warning. My phone rang, jarring me from my stunned paralysis.

Robert’s name appeared on the screen, and for a moment I thought this might be some terrible mistake, that he was calling to explain that divorce papers had been filed accidentally, that we could work through whatever problems I’d apparently been too blind to see. “Catherine, I assume you received the papers.”

His voice was cold, businesslike, nothing like the warm tone he’d used to say goodbye when he left for work that morning. Nothing like the voice that had whispered, “I love you,” in my ear just three nights ago after we’d watched a movie together on the couch.