I could tell you my marriage ended. But that wouldn’t be the whole story. The truth is I slowly and quietly destroyed my marriage while convincing myself everything was fine.
I’m an average guy. I had a good job, and I showed up physically. I paid the bills. I provided. I thought that was enough. I thought love was something you earned once and then just… had.
I was wrong.
I grew up in a small town in rural western Kentucky, raised in church by a devoted mother. Faith was familiar. Scripture was familiar. People watched me grow up and assumed I’d be fine. I assumed it, too.
My parents divorced when I was 5. After that, I saw my father three times before he died. No birthdays. No calls. No effort. For years, he lived a mile from me, and I never knocked on his door. I didn’t have the courage. We joked about it when we drove by his house, but jokes are sometimes just a mask for pain.
