If you invite me to your wedding or hen party, you’ll handle me in one of three ways. One: you brief everyone, so there’s no chance they’ll ask about my relationship status. Two: you shoot me a sympathetic glance when something romantic happens and tell me how tired you are of wedding planning. Three: you don’t acknowledge my divorce at all, and treat me exactly the same as every other guest. The third is my favourite. The world already gives me ample reminders that I am different from most people my age.
I was married at 23, divorced by 25. Some of you were at the wedding and have no doubt revisited that day, searching for clues that the marriage was doomed. It turns out there were none; everything was wrong from the start, but we were all too young to notice, or too polite to point it out.
I spent years justifying my decision to continue with the relationship. We had stopped making time for each other, and he paid very little attention to me on our wedding day. But we’d been together six years and romance doesn’t last for ever, does it? The best of you were supportive when I repeated this mantra, but there was enough scepticism in your expression to push me to start questioning it.
I am now 27, and in a relationship with a man I’m even more in love with. I attend your weddings, fawn over your colour schemes, feel my heart swell with happiness when you walk down the aisle. I hope to be the sole member of the divorced club for the foreseeable future. But if I see the warning signs in your marriages, I won’t hesitate to help you along with that same kind, sceptical expression. That’s the least I can do.
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