When Your Marriage Begins to Fall Apart

Unexpected Storms

We knew how to handle our snow in Boston. We took pride in our ability to move it off the road, our driveways, and to pile it in places where it would be out of the way as it melted. Boston’s Logan International Airport takes pride in never closing due to snowfall accumulation. But, every once in a great while, a snowstorm would catch us off guard as if to remind us things were quite as predictable as they seem.

It was never the size of the storms that were the problem. Even the worst blizzards with terrible flooding along the coast were, if nothing else, understood as being part of the experience of the New England and greater Boston region. If you purchased a home on the beautiful coast, you took the bad with the good. The winters didn’t make Bostonians any grumpier than usual. Except when they didn’t behave in the expected way. It was the unexpected which could be a problem.

This was the case on that winter day early in 2008. I was working as a security guard at the Harvard School of Public Health, and as I’d arrived to work on the cloudy and cold morning, we Bostonians knew snow was coming. We could feel the right combination of humidity and air temperature we’d gotten used to experiencing before snowfall which indicated the weather forecasters were probably right this time. They had promised it wouldn’t be much. Probably only a dusting to an inch or so. Schools and businesses remained open. The Boston Department of Public Works pretreated the roads with salt, confident the effort would take care of the minimal amount of precipitation expected. While the salt would coat everything with a dirty-gray tinge, it was a necessary annoyance to maintain traction on roads and sidewalks. People, myself included, went to work. We tough Bostonians wouldn’t be stopped by a dusting to an inch or so.

As it turned out, “a dusting to an inch or so” was somewhat of an understatement.

The flurries began around 9AM. By 10 the flurries turned into squalls which finally lasted long enough to be considered a snowstorm. By 11 it was clear there would be more snow than had been predicted – measurable amounts, as they say. The Department of Public Works sent out the plows to clear the streets so busses would be able to navigate when schools let out, and commuters would be able to drive their cars through the city when businesses closed later in the evening. Well, that was the plan anyways.

Unfortunately for the plows, the schools had decided in favor of early dismissal to avoid transportation problems due to the accumulating snow. School busses flooded the narrow Boston streets. In addition, the same logic school administrators used prompted businesses in Boston to act in kind, and business people began piling into their cars and the public transportation system by noon. When it came to intersections and traffic lights it was a first come, first serve mentality, and, well, red lights be damned! Frustrated drivers inched along and pulled into intersections at the first chance only to be stopped before clearing the intersection for other traffic. Often this meant they stopped on the subway tracks preventing trains from moving as well.  All of these factors combined to create traffic problems we’d be discussing for years to come.

Nobody was moving anywhere. It was gridlock defined.

On this particular day I arrived at work before the snow began, covering for a colleague who had requested a day off. The shift was uneventful other than the surprised faces of people as the snowfall began to exceed expectations. As I watched the snow come down and the vehicular traffic begin to back up, I knew there was a strong chance I’d be asked to remain at work to cover for a colleague who was unable to make it in. Sure enough, about an hour before the end of my shift my supervisor approached me and asked if I could cover a post at the New Research Building at Harvard Medical School which was right next to my normal place of work. I wouldn’t be going anywhere anyways. My normal half-hour commute was clearly going to take hours and it made more sense to stay at work and make some money as I waited out the traffic rather than burning gas in my car as I sat in the logjam. After informing my wife of the situation, I told my supervisor I’d stay.  

Working at the New Research Building, or NRB, as we called it, could sometimes be interesting. Just the week before I’d been working a shift when the general manager for the Boston Red Sox, arrived for a special fund-raising event. He and his entourage brought the recently-won 2007 World Series Trophy with them. I had the opportunity to make some small-talk with the brass of my favorite baseball team and get my picture taken with the trophy, one I’d dreamed of winning myself. That shift was one of the more interesting I’d ever cover.

The post was just inside one of the two front entrances to NRB, an all-glass building looking out at Avenue Louis Pasture. As I stood post, I watched the traffic jam outside the windows. I don’t suppose there’s usually anything interesting about a traffic jam. It’s just cars that aren’t moving very fast. But, on this occasion the cars weren’t moving at all. It is not an exaggeration to say I stared at the same 8 or so cars for the first three hours of my 5-hour shift. It was fascinating, and I was glad to be making a little bit of money as others sat on a road to nowhere.

The juxtaposition struck me as I stood there looking out at the fancy cars. I was an entry-level security guard in my 30’s. I had a master's degree and one failed career in my back pocket. Usually, I considered myself to be on the road to nowhere. On this particular day, however, I smiled a bit, glad to find a silver lining in what was otherwise a humbling experience.

Eventually the cars I’d been observing began to inch forward. It had stopped snowing some time ago, the damage having already been done. And, not long after the cars began to move the streets were empty save for some stragglers and the occasional snowplow moving slush from the middle of the road to the side. By the time my shift came to an end, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The moon and stars shone brightly and the roads which had been covered with snow and cars were now just empty and wet. As I drove home, I mentally prepared myself for the task of shoveling the driveway, something I took pride in accomplishing well. It was one job I felt secure in as a husband and father.

So, I was surprised when I arrived home to find the job already done, and done well at that. The snow wasn’t just pushed aside, it was piled a couple feet passed the edge of the driveway and sidewalks, completely out of the way. I was impressed. I didn’t know many people who shoveled this thoroughly. Though we had some pretty good neighbors who looked out for us, I was taken aback that they’d done it at all. Shoveling isn’t easy, and I appreciated the gesture.

I walked inside the front entryway and kicked the snow off my shoes, doing my best to keep the mess near the front door where it would create the least number of problems inside the home. My wife was in the kitchen cleaning up from the dinner she and the kids had just finished.

“Hey!” I said.

“Hey.” She replied without making eye contact, somewhat disinterested.

I looked around the kitchen, the largest room in our small, Victorian-era house, expecting to see our children.  Our 4-year-old son normally would have attacked me as I walked through the door. “They’re upstairs.” She said, answering my question before I could ask. “I put Jordan down for bed; Josh is in bed watching TV.”

“Oh,” I replied, recognizing the familiar signs of my wife’s ruminating mood.

“Did George shovel the driveway?” I asked trying to pretend I couldn’t tell something was wrong. George was the neighbor who lived in the house directly to the left of ours. He was probably in his 60’s, a pudgy type of guy with a gray, walrus-like mustache which was permanently stained yellow from the nicotine in his cigarettes. His outlook on the world was a little offbeat, but his kindness exceeded his quirks. Each and every weekend George travelled to New Hampshire to visit friends and brought us back a loaf of raisin bread from a bakery he frequented in the north country. It would have been like him to shovel the driveway if he’d somehow found out I was going to be late.

“No, George didn’t shovel the driveway.” She replied.

“Was it John?” John was our other neighbor, to the right of our house. He was a nice guy too, but going out of his way in this manner wasn’t in his character.

“Nope. I did it.”

“Seriously?” I replied. It wasn’t that I didn’t think she could do it. I just didn’t know why she would.

On the other hand, it made sense now; the perfection in the technique. She’d heard me brag about my shoveling expertise for years at that point. “You don’t just move snow to get around it,” I’d mansplain, “you move it to prepare for the next storm.” Just like every other task I’d ever seen her attack; she’d done it to perfection.

“Oh.” I said. “Thank you!”

She shrugged. “I didn’t do it for you. I wanted to make sure I could do it myself.” There was a little more umph in her voice this time.

So, there it was.

We’d been down this road before. This was about our marriage. Shoveling the snow was her way of testing herself to see if she could address the realities of life without me around. While this wasn’t a new concern, it was no doubt an escalation from her previous statements of dissatisfaction in our marriage over the past year or so. These were more than words. This time she’d taken action, even if the action was just shoveling 4 inches of snow off the driveway, she’d acted in a manner that sent a clear message.

In the past, I’d been able to address her unhappiness with changing my behaviors, albeit temporarily, in ways that would pacify her. I’d pick up my clothes more. I’d fold the blanket from the previous evening’s time spent watching television. I’d clean up the kitchen and fold laundry without being asked. I’d get a job as a part-time security guard to help pay the bills. I’d been able to stave off her feelings of discontent. To me, they felt more like the typical “nagging wife” issues that are the trials on which TV sitcoms are based.

But shoveling the driveway? This was different. She didn’t just shovel the driveway to make a point. She was always able to make her points to me and get me to act differently, if only for a short period of time. She meant what she said. She’d shoveled the driveway to be sure she was going to be OK in the future when I wasn’t there to do it for her. And - as the driveway was as free of snow as I could have made it myself - it was clear self-sufficiency after a snowstorm wouldn’t be a problem for her. This was action on a new level, and I knew our marriage was in peril.

My silence wasn’t helping the situation. “Did I do something?” I asked. I knew I hadn’t done anything. In fact, quite the contrary.

“No.” She began, finally looking me in the face. “I … can’t do this anymore. I feel like I’m keeping this family afloat all by myself. You watch the kids all week long and then hand them off to me when I get home from work. I love the kids and probably wouldn’t mind so much if you did this and then went into the kitchen to make dinner. But, that’s not what happens.  You hand them off to me and then expect me to make dinner. When that’s done, I get to clean up from the day, or put dishes in the dishwasher, or do laundry, or clean, or pay the bills, or go grocery shopping. I know you watch the kids during the day, and I appreciate it. But Jeff, our kids are easy! It’s not like you have difficult kids that run you ragged. Jordan can’t even move!”

Jordan was our daughter, not yet 4 months old at the time.

She continued, “Josh is amazing and is able to entertain himself if he needs to. It’s not like these kids are tiring you out. Yet without fail, when I walk through the door at the end of the day you make it clear to me that you’re done with them. It’s like, ‘mommy’s home and she’s on duty now!’ I’ve been at work all day and you just hand them off? How’s that fair?” Before I could respond, she continued. “It’s not fair! Maybe if you were doing some of these other things all day long, taking some responsibilities off my plate, then I wouldn’t feel this way!” But you don’t, and I do!”

“I can’t do this anymore.” She was crying now. But she went on, as if to double-down on a point she’d already made.

“Every day, I go to work and see men there, family men who are working to do their part for their family…are they happy? Not all the time, but they’re doing it. I’m sorry... You have a lot of awesome qualities, but they’re not making you a good partner. Not in the way I need you to be.”

She turned back to the sink and began rinsing dishes again. “I’d rather be with one of them.”

She said it under her breath, but loud enough so I could hear it. She left the comment hanging in the air.

I thought about what she said- I’d rather be with … one of them.

“Is there someone else?” I asked.

I wasn’t accusing her. But there was something in the way she said it that felt different. If there was someone else, she seemed to want to talk about it with me.

“No. Not really.”

I didn’t respond, though I remained unconvinced. “Not really” left the door open.

As if she was reading my mind, she turned and faced me.

“I promise you I’m not having an affair, but I’m not going to tell you I don’t have an attraction to some of the guys I’m around on a daily basis; the kind of man who is carrying at least his fair share of the weight for his family when it comes to the responsibilities of life.” She was talking slowly and quietly, like she was working through the shame she felt, unsure if the shame should be there or not. “You know it’s not about sex. That’s not my style. I don’t think I find these guys to be particularly attractive, I don’t think. They’re certainly not more attractive than you. That’s not what it’s about for me. You have to understand that.” She pleaded.

“I do.” I replied, looking directly into her tear-streaked face.

“And it’s not about money. I don’t need you to make a lot of money. I just need a partner in my marriage, and you’re not being the partner I need you to be.” She looked away.

I was at a loss. She wasn’t mad. She was defeated. There’s no point in arguing with someone who’s already defeated. Especially if you care about them. And to be sure, I cared about Joy. I loved her. It just didn’t seem I was all that effective at loving my wife the way she needed to be loved.

She was quiet again. So was I. It didn’t seem like there was anything to be said, really. I tried anyway.

“I’m sorry.” I said, shaking my head.

“I know.”

I left the room and walked outside for some fresh air. The clean, snow-free driveway stared me in the face. I reflected on the day. This was the second unexpected storm I’d experienced in 12 hours.

I’d handled the storms of my marriage before. I recognized them and knew being married was hard, that there would be difficulties to work through. When we were married, I’d made a vow to stay with her no matter what. I’d be faithful to her, through the good times and the bad. But her desire for me to leave was something that caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected this problem. I had expected storms, I just hadn’t expected this type of storm.

I was flummoxed. How on earth did we get here? I imagined there were guys that might have thrown in the towel at that point. I just didn’t want to be one of them. It wasn’t how I was raised. Divorce was a dirty word, and we just didn’t do it.

But I was changing, and it wasn’t just my marriage.

Very little was turning out how I thought it would have. I began to contemplate what the changes meant and how I was going to move forward.

It was clear to me things were going to be different, whether I wanted them to be or not. It was time for some reflection; both about myself and my relationship with my wife...our marriage.

As my rear end began to grow numb from the cold, winter-temperature of the front porch step I was sitting on, I kept asking myself the same question, over and over. How did we get here. I thought back to the first few years of our marriage when everything went pretty well. I went back further to the days when we were dating. I recalled our dating relationship had been rocky as well. We went to relationship counseling to talk about things. I was pretty sure we got engaged at about the time our counselor was going to tell us we should go our separate ways. There were some things we’d never discussed about the early days of our relationship. Things that, to be honest, I didn’t really want to discuss. Things that scared me.

I thought back further, to before we were married or had even met. I’d had a happy childhood. I’d been loved, protected, cherished and …

God... What I experienced growing up … the expectations I’d developed about my life as an adult … they were falling apart. I longed to understand how I got here when everything had started out so well. It was turning out in the face of this storm, that things weren’t as predictable as they once seemed.

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