From the very beginning, we were inseparable. For five years, I stood by him through everything—poverty, hardship, days with no certainty. Then, I worked hard, changed my life, and found success. With that success came new challenges we never expected.
One afternoon, out of the blue, my husband sat me down and said, “I want a divorce.” No discussion, no warning—just the cold, abrupt end to what we had built together.
Confusion, anger, heartbreak—it hit me all at once.
Some weeks later, while going through errands in a crowded street, I saw him. He was bent over, collecting scrap metal. The very man who once stood proudly beside me was now scavenging on the roadside.
In that moment, a flood of memories came back. The good and the bad. The dreams we shared. The promise of forever. And the abrupt way it dissolved.
Seeing him there—humble, struggling—struck me deeper than the divorce itself.
I stood frozen for a moment, watching him piece by piece gather remnants from the ground. He didn’t see me; he was lost in whatever he was doing.
I left before he noticed. But that image—of the man I loved reduced to that—has haunted me.