Worst. Birthday. Ever. The second my husband was out the door, I collapsed in a heap on the living room sofa and cried my eyes out. He’d gone off to work without so much as a “goodbye” or “I love you.” Not even a “happy birthday.”
Our seven-year marriage was over. That much was clear. We’d just come home after a long weekend in San Francisco, where we’d intended to celebrate my 41st birthday with friends. We were trying to work through our problems. Maybe a mini vacation was just what we needed. But he’d ignored me the entire weekend, even flirted with one of my friends. I spent the whole time stuck in sad, awkward silence. I never felt so alone, so unloved.
If only Mom were still alive , I thought. She always knew just what to say, always saw the best in me even when I couldn’t. “Leave it all up to God,” she’d tell me. “He has a plan for you.” Growing up, those words really annoyed me—how did she know that for sure? Now, though, I’d give anything for Mom’s comfort and encouragement. Please, Lord, I prayed through my tears. Let me feel that love again.