My divorce was final fifteen years ago. But the Catholic Church, to which I’m a recent convert, considers me still married.
My ex-husband (or am I still supposed to call him my husband?) and I exchanged vows in 1982 at the Madison Avenue Baptist Church in Manhattan. My grandfather, a Southern Baptist minister, presided. I was Baptist. My ex-husband was (then) a nonobservant Jew. We had two daughters. Motherhood changed my life, and I wanted to spend as much time with my children as I could during their short childhood. And so, after financing the down payment on our home, I left the practice of law and became a full-time stay-at-home mom.
A few years later, my ex-husband had an affair and served me with divorce papers at our front door. In front of our little girl, whom I was about to walk to school. I opposed the lawsuit. God help me, I loved him. I wanted to save my marriage and our beautiful family. At the time of the lawsuit, New York was the only state that hadn’t yet adopted no-fault divorce. That meant that unless I’d breached the marital contract—by committing domestic violence, adultery, cruelty, for example—he couldn’t divorce me against my will. For years, the Catholic Church in New York had successfully persuaded state legislators not to adopt no-fault divorce, my lawyer said. I was impressed. It was one of many reasons I would come to admire the Church.
But judges and lawyers who represented my ex-husband pressed me to give up my right to defend myself and my choice to remain married. If anybody had the right to sue, it was me; after all, he was the one having the affair. But I knew in my bones that I had to stand up and speak the truth. The stress of doing so nearly took me down. I even contemplated suicide. I didn’t dare tell anyone about this—not my friends, not my shrink, not my lawyer. My ex had threatened to seek sole custody of the children. By then, he was the one who earned the hefty paycheck, while I took care of the kids. So I lived in fear.
Several years after the lawsuit started, the third of seven judges dismissed all the charges against me. There would be no divorce, at least not then. I hoped my ex-husband’s girlfriend would finally disappear, but she didn’t. So he moved to New Jersey, which had adopted no-fault divorce, giving him the power to end our marriage. I had no choice but to give in. We settled custody, and a second trial ensued over property division. The new judge—a woman—pressured me to accept my ex-husband’s settlement demands and warned that my future hung in the balance. She shamed me for being a stay-at-home mom. She told me I needed a boyfriend. Although I’d once practiced law, nothing prepared me for the horrors of divorce court. The divorce was final in March 2009. My ex remarried a few days later.
I temped, became a landlord, and paid bills on ever-dwindling savings and child support. In 2010, New York adopted no-fault divorce as the other forty-nine states already had. Somehow the Church had lost its influence. I began writing about my experiences. I cofounded a volunteer bipartisan organization to advocate for divorce reform. Meanwhile, my children grew up. When I could no longer afford the mortgage, I sold my house, moved, and started over.