Jo got the house appraised. "In case we ever want to move," which really means "for when YOU move out." A part of me was praying that it had magically gone down in value, that even with all the upgrades we've put in over the past twenty plus years, it would be worth less than what we bought it for, but it's not, it's worth more. A lot more, enough more that when those papers come (and they will come) I will find myself without a home. The only question now is if it will be sold and the money split or if she'll get to keep it. In a way, I can't blame her if she does. It's her home, too, but God, I don't want to go through that. I don't want to spend weeks living out of boxes in some extended-stay hotel while I try to find a place I can afford. I don't want to worry about being a bachelor again. I don't want to become my brother, dating a girl (as sweet as she is) young enough to be my daughter. I don't want to plan another wedding, another family. I don't want a mid-life crisis. I don't want this damn divorce (though I'm not stupid enough to think the marriage can be salvaged) but it's coming regardless, waiting in the wings for the right moment to pounce.

Some days, I can't help but wonder if it wouldn't be better to be proactive about this whole process, if it would be like a band-aid with the pain less the quicker you pull. Should I start looking for places to live? Should I go and actually get the papers? But I don't have the guts, can't pull the trigger hard as I try. We were supposed to be the marriage that worked out. High school sweethearts. You shouldn't be married for thirty plus years only to fall apart now. We've been through too much, survived this long. It seems silly to kill it just because of something like no more passion. Surely there's another way to solve this? But instead of doing something one way or the other, dragging Jo to marriage counseling or filing the papers myself, I just sit here and wait, and perhaps that's the worst part of all.