51-Year-Old Valerie Regrets Waiting Until Kids Grew Up to Divorce

I met Jean-Philippe when I was 24 years old, newly arrived in Paris, sent by my well-to-do family to carve out a “position” in high society. I was staying with their friends in a beautiful house in Suresnes, a place that frequently hosted gatherings. It was at one of these events one evening that I encountered a young architect who had come with his parents. His father and my father were both architects, which made starting a conversation quite natural. I found him incredibly handsome, with his piercing blue eyes and long hands. We got married a year later, and I had our first child the following year, at the age of 28.

My first daughter was soon followed by a second, and then a son when I was 34 years old. Throughout these parenting years, our relationship deteriorated, mainly because I disliked his way of raising the children. He was cold, very strict, and often mean. He criticized our daughters’ bodies for being too “flat,” called our son an “idiot,” and as I had gained weight, I no longer received any attention from him. He started coming home very late. Still, I think he was content with this life, which was very much like the one he had known with his parents—few emotions, just rules to follow. This left me bitter and nearly friendless. My days were filled with work and raising our three children, ensuring they did well in school, that the girls stayed out of trouble with boys, and that they attended music lessons, catechism, and were polite, well-dressed, and well-groomed. I was visibly wearing myself out.

“The thought of divorce nagged at me but seemed impossible”

I believe I no longer loved my husband by the time our son was born. But it became glaringly obvious when he was about 10 years old. He was a sensitive and fragile child, suffering from his father’s lack of affection. He was sad, withdrawn, almost absent. While he was in middle school, and as my first daughter was taking her final exams, followed by the second two years later, the idea of divorce nagged at me. It seemed obvious, yet impossible at the same time. Moving from our 1,345 square foot apartment in Asnières to a 323 square foot place with my youngest son? On a librarian’s salary, I couldn’t really hope for much better. And anyway, leaving my home, which I had held for 20 years and shaped in every detail, was out of the question. It was mine, period.

Of course, he said no to the divorce. He wouldn’t even listen to me. All I wanted was for him to leave! To let me have the apartment and move in with one of his mistresses. I felt he at least owed me that, after I had sacrificed my career, raised his children, and been cheated on multiple times. We ended up, after many heated arguments, agreeing that we would divorce when our son started high school, and then we would sell the apartment to start our lives anew separately. Our son repeated a grade (perhaps on purpose?), but we still managed to get divorced a year ago. I believe it was the happiest day of my life, for him and for me, finally free. And incredibly: last summer, my husband packed up without a word and moved in with his mistress in Normandy.

He has never contacted me since he left. As a result, I live alone with my son in our beloved large apartment, relishing all this space. In retrospect, seeing how easily my ex-husband eventually moved in with his mistress, I think I was too lenient with him. I probably should have kicked him out sooner, which would have saved me many wasted years, as living with him was a true ordeal. Now that I live alone with my son, I truly realize this. However, I can’t fully regret waiting to divorce. I was mostly thinking about my children and their happiness. It was unthinkable for me to upend their entire social lives by moving. They were my priority. Now, it can finally be about me.