Blindsided by Divorce: He Left for a Younger Woman

The letter was between the grocery list and your daughter’s permission slip. Ordinary placement for extraordinary cruelty.

Katherine, it started, not “My love” or “Sweetheart” or any of the thousand names he’d called you over nineteen years. Just Katherine, like you were a colleague. Like you were anyone.

By the time you reached the words “met someone” and “need to be honest” and “deserve to be happy,” your knees had buckled. You’re on the kitchen floor, the kitchen floor where your babies learned to crawl, where you’ve stood making his coffee for 6,935 mornings, where you were planning to retire next spring. The letter floats down beside you, and you see her name. The Pilates instructor from vacation. The one with the Australian accent and the gap between her front teeth and the ass that defied gravity. The one you joked about. The one he said was “too young to be teaching, probably still in college.”

She’s twenty-eight. You looked her up. Born the year you started dating him.

The letter explains that they’ve been “in touch” since that vacation eleven months ago. Eleven months. That’s your anniversary trip, three family birthdays, Christmas morning, your daughter’s high school graduation, your son’s baseball championship, your father’s funeral. All of it. He held you while you sobbed about losing your dad, knowing he was leaving. He made love to you last Tuesday, knowing. He asked what you wanted for your upcoming birthday, knowing he wouldn’t be there to give it.

The letter says he “didn’t mean for this to happen.” The letter says you’re “an amazing mother and person.” The letter says he hopes you can “be friends for the kids’ sake.”

The letter doesn’t say “I’m sorry.” Not once.

The Math of Betrayal

Nineteen years. Three kids. Two mortgages. One letter.

Let’s do the real math, the math he apparently did while you were building a life:

Your age: 41
Her age: 28
Years you gave him: 19
Pregnancies you carried: 3
Pounds gained growing his children: 165 cumulative
Stretch marks: Countless
C-section scars: 2
Times you put your career on hold: 3
Promotions you didn’t take because of “family priorities”: At least 4
Years since you felt beautiful naked: 7
Times he said you were being paranoid about aging: Hundreds

Meanwhile, her math:

Years she’s been alive: 28
Pregnancies: 0
Stretch marks: 0
Career compromises: 0
Pilates certifications: 3
Instagram followers: 11.2K
Photos of her in a sports bra on social media: 847

This is what you’ve been reduced to. Mathematics. Comparisons. Your nineteen years of love, loyalty, and labor measured against her hip-to-waist ratio.

Reflection Check-In #1

What feeling is threatening to destroy you right now?

⬜ A) The humiliation – everyone will know he left me for someone younger and hotter
The shame isn’t yours. He’s the walking midlife crisis. You’re the woman who held it together for 19 years

⬜ B) The rage – I want to burn everything he’s ever touched
Rage is appropriate. Feel it fully. Scream in the car. Break the dishes he’ll never eat off again. Just don’t do anything legally problematic

⬜ C) The disbelief – this cannot be my actual life
Shock is your nervous system protecting you from too much truth at once. You’ll believe it in waves

⬜ D) The comparison – she’s everything I’m not
She’s 28 with no responsibilities. You’re a grown woman who birthed three humans. This isn’t a fair fight

⬜ E) The stupidity – how did I not see this coming?
You didn’t see it because you were busy living your actual life, trusting your husband. That’s not stupidity, it’s marriage

⬜ F) The worthlessness – I’m being discarded like old furniture
You are not disposable. He is having a crisis. His choices reflect his character, not your worth

⬜ G) Other:
Whatever’s screaming deserves to be heard. Feel it all

The Happy Marriage That Only You Were Having

The cruelest part isn’t the leaving. It’s discovering you were happy alone.

You thought you were a team. You posted those anniversary photos with captions about “19 years and still my best friend.” You told your girlfriends you were “one of the lucky ones.” You pitched in for marriage counseling for your struggling friends, secretly grateful you didn’t need it. You had sex twice a week, even when tired. You planned date nights. You wore lingerie. You tried.

Here’s what you were actually doing:

Having conversations with someone already gone
Making love to someone thinking of another body
Planning futures with someone planning exits
Building traditions with someone who was temporary
Raising children with a roommate, not a partner

For eleven months minimum, but probably longer, you’ve been performing a one-woman show called “Happy Marriage” while he was in a different production entirely. Every “I love you” was a lie. Every future plan was fiction. Every family moment was him pretending, checking his phone for her texts while you made Sunday dinner.

The gaslighting of it breaks your brain. Were you delusional? Were there signs you ignored? You’re replaying every moment, looking for clues:

That time he started caring about his abs
The new cologne you complimented
The weekend “work trips” that increased
The way he guarded his phone
The decreased interest in sex (or was it increased? You can’t tell what was real anymore)

But also, the contradictions:

He planned your anniversary dinner two months ago
He initiated sex last week
He talked about retirement plans last month
He helped your son with college applications, discussing “next year”
He kissed you goodbye yesterday morning

This cognitive dissonance – the simultaneous realities – makes you feel insane. You were living in a marriage. He was having an exit affair. Both existed in the same house, the same bed, the same life. Except only one was real, and it wasn’t yours.

The Pilates Instructor: A Cliché So Basic It Burns

He left you for a Pilates instructor. Not even a yoga teacher, which might have had some spiritual depth. A Pilates instructor named – you can’t make this up – Brittany. With an ‘i’ she dots with a heart.

You met her together. TOGETHER. On your family vacation that you saved for, planned, booked. She taught that beach Pilates class you both took, laughing about being the oldest people there. You remember him struggling with the planks. You remember her adjusting his form, her hands on his hips. You remember joking afterward: “Bet she made you feel old.” He laughed. “Ancient,” he said.

Apparently, ancient was exactly what he was afraid of becoming.

She friended you both on Instagram. You followed back to be polite. You even liked some of her posts – sunrise yoga sessions, smoothie bowls, inspirational quotes about “living your truth” and “following your bliss.” You had no idea her bliss included your husband. That her truth would destroy your family.

The vacation photos are still on Facebook. There’s one where all five of you are laughing at dinner. She’s at the next table, visible in the background. Was that when it started? Were they already texting? When you went to bed early with sun poisoning, did he go find her? That morning, he went running alone – was he alone?

Eleven months of lies. That’s:

334 days of deception
47 weeks of performance
Approximately 2,000 “I love yous” that were lies
Every single moment since last July, fraudulent

The Letter: Cowardice as a Literary Form

He couldn’t even say it to your face.

Nineteen years, three children, two dogs, one life – reduced to two pages of computer-printed cowardice. Not even handwritten. Times New Roman, 12-point font, 1-inch margins. Like a resignation letter. Which, technically, it was.

The letter was crafted to avoid confrontation. No chance for you to respond, to fight, to remind him of what he’s destroying. No opportunity to see your face when the bomb detonated. He gets to remember you happy, making breakfast, kissing him goodbye. You have to remember him as absence, as void, as the space where a person used to be.

Reflection Check-In #2

What do you need to believe about yourself right now?

⬜ A) This is not about my inadequacy – this is about his character
Men who abandon families for younger women aren’t upgrading. They’re revealing who they always were

⬜ B) I did not waste 19 years – I lived them honestly
Your investment was real. Your love was real. You lived with integrity. That’s never wasted

⬜ C) I will survive this even though it feels unsurvivable
You’ve survived 100% of your worst days. This won’t be the one that breaks you

⬜ D) My children need to see me fight through this
They’re learning how to handle betrayal by watching you. Show them strength looks like feeling everything and continuing anyway

⬜ E) I am not the cliché, he is
You’re not the “discarded first wife.” He’s the “pathetic middle-aged man having a crisis.” Own the narrative

⬜ F) I deserve someone who chooses me every single day
Not someone younger or tighter. Someone who sees your worth beyond your body’s age

⬜ G) Other:
Whatever truth you need to believe about yourself, start believing it now

The letter used therapy language to justify cruelty:

“I need to live my authentic life”
“We’ve grown in different directions”
“I haven’t been my true self”
“This isn’t about you, it’s about my journey”
“I need to choose happiness”

As if happiness is found in a 28-year-old’s apartment instead of your daughter’s graduation. As if authenticity means abandoning everyone who knew you before you had abs again. As if growth means regression to a teenager’s fantasy.

He wrote: “You’re an incredible mother and the kids are lucky to have you.” Translation: You keep being the parent while I become a teenager again. You handle the orthodontist appointments, the college tours, the heartbreak of their father leaving – I’ll be at Brittany’s doing planks.

He wrote: “I’ll always cherish what we had.” Past tense. You didn’t even know your marriage had moved to past tense. You were still in present, planning future. He’d already buried it, mourned it, moved on. Eleven months ago.

The Kids: Collateral Damage in His Midlife Crisis

Your daughter (17): Found you on the kitchen floor with the letter. She read it over your shoulder while you hyperventilated. Her first words: “Dad’s having an affair with that Pilates girl? The one from vacation? She’s like, my age almost. That’s disgusting.” Then she held you while you sobbed, your teenage daughter parenting you through your husband’s abandonment. She hasn’t spoken to him in six days.

Your son (15): Punched a hole in his bedroom wall. Then punched another. Then broke his hand punching the third. You spent the night in the ER, explaining to nurses that his father had left via letter. The look they gave you – pity mixed with recognition. How many abandoned wives have they seen? His hand is casted. His heart is broken. He keeps saying, “But we just went to the game together last week. We had plans for spring training.”

Your youngest (12): Still thinks Dad’s coming back. Keeps setting his place at dinner. Asks when he’ll be home. You can’t bring yourself to show him the letter. To explain that Daddy chose a 28-year-old’s body over bedtime stories. That their father looked at the life you built and decided Brittany’s flexibility was worth more than family.

They’re grieving too:

The father they thought they had
The family unit that just exploded
The story of their parents’ love
Their faith in permanence
Their ability to trust
Their home (because you’ll have to sell it)
Their college funds (because lawyers are expensive)
Their normal

The Humiliation Tour

Everyone knows. EVERYONE.

The school pickup line: Those looks of pity mixed with relief it’s not them. The whispers behind hands. The sudden silence when you walk up. You’re now “Katherine whose husband left her for that young Pilates instructor.” Your entire identity reduced to abandoned wife.

Social media: He posted photos with her within a week. A WEEK. “Starting a new chapter” with a sunset photo of their silhouettes. Her yoga-toned silhouette. Your mutual friends liked it. LIKED IT. The same friends at your anniversary party six months ago. The ones who toasted “nineteen years and still going strong!”

The gym: Where he’s been going religiously since the vacation, “getting in shape.” Now you know why. The front desk girl asks where you’ve been. Your spin instructor mentions he hasn’t seen your husband lately. You realize he’s probably flying to see her, or she’s visiting here, or they’re meeting somewhere between. All those weekend “work trips.” All those early morning “runs.” You can never go back to that gym – too many people witnessed your oblivious stupidity.

Your mother: “Well, honey, did you let yourself go?” AS IF YOUR BODY’S CHANGES AFTER THREE CHILDREN JUSTIFY ABANDONMENT. As if the weight gained during pregnancy, the breasts that fed his babies, the hips that widened birthing his legacy – as if any of that makes his betrayal logical.

His mother: “She seems nice.” NICE. Your mother-in-law, who was in the delivery room when you hemorrhaged with your second baby, who you spent every holiday with for two decades, describes your replacement as “nice.” Then adds: “He seems happy.” The knife, twisted.

The Body Comparison That’s Driving You Insane

You can’t stop looking at her Instagram. It’s torture, but you can’t stop.

Her body:

Flat stomach with defined abs
Arms with that yoga definition
Thighs with gap
Ass that sits high
Breasts that point up
Skin without marks
Everything tight, smooth, unmarked by life

Your body:

Stomach with the c-section pouch that never went away
Arms that held babies, carried toddlers, lifted life
Thighs that touch because they grew humans
Ass that gravity has befriended
Breasts that nourished three babies and show it
Skin with the silverfish traces of expansion
Everything softer, marked by the map of motherhood

You’re comparing your 41-year-old, three-children body to her 28-year-old, no-responsibility body. It’s not a fair fight. It was never meant to be a fight. Your body was supposed to be loved for what it created, not compared to someone who hasn’t created anything except Instagram content.

Reflection Check-In #3

What truth about him are you finally seeing?

⬜ A) He was always capable of this cruelty
This isn’t out of character. This is character revealed. You just couldn’t see it before

⬜ B) He’s a coward who chose the easiest path
Leaving via letter, avoiding consequences, choosing someone with no complications – all cowardice

⬜ C) He never grew up, just got older
Emotional maturity isn’t guaranteed with age. Some men just become old boys

⬜ D) He valued my services, not my soul
You were convenient – handling life while he played. He’s lost the best thing he had

⬜ E) He’s having a mental breakdown and calling it love
This isn’t romance. It’s crisis. New pussy won’t fix whatever’s broken in him

⬜ F) He rewrote our history to justify his choices
He has to make you the villain to be the hero of his own story. Don’t believe his revision

⬜ G) Other:
Whatever you’re finally seeing about his character, trust that clarity

The Practical Devastation Hidden in the Emotional Wreckage

While you’re drowning in betrayal, life demands logistics:

Immediate needs:

Lawyer (with retainer you can’t afford)
STD testing (because who knows who else in those 11 months)
Therapy for three traumatized kids
Locks changed (he doesn’t get to come and go)
Bank accounts separated before he drains them
Health insurance figured out
Story to tell everyone

Financial terrorism:

The house you can’t afford alone
The credit cards he’s already maxed
Your career you sidelined for family
Three college tuitions approaching
The retirement funds now halved
The business you helped build that’s legally his

Social restructuring:

Which friends were real vs. convenient
How to attend events alone
Whether to keep his last name
How to handle social media
Dating at 41 with three kids and trust issues
Explaining to every single person forever

You’re simultaneously grieving and fighting for survival. Processing betrayal while filing paperwork. Parenting traumatized children while traumatized yourself. The cruelty of having to be functional while shattered.

What Nobody Understands About Blindside Abandonment

This isn’t regular divorce. This isn’t “growing apart” or “irreconcilable differences.” This is psychological warfare. One day you had a marriage, the next day you had nothing. No warning. No preparation. No voice.

The particular torture includes:

Gaslighting yourself: “How did I not know? What did I miss?”
Questioning reality: “Was any of it real? Was I alone the whole time?”
The theft of closure: No final conversation, no answers, no understanding
The revision of history: Every memory now suspect, possibly fraudulent
Complex PTSD: The trauma of sudden abandonment plus betrayal
The inability to trust yourself: If you couldn’t see this, what else can’t you see?

People say “You’re better off without him” as if that’s comfort. As if nineteen years can be erased because he revealed himself as garbage. As if your entire adult life can be rewritten because the ending sucked. As if the father of your children being trash doesn’t affect the children.

You’re not “better off.” You’re different. You’re damaged in specific ways. You’re rebuilding from nuclear ground zero. Better off suggests comparison. There’s no comparison. The life you had doesn’t exist anymore. The person who left that letter isn’t the person you married. The woman reading it isn’t who you were before. Everything is after now.

The Rage That Feels Like It Will Consume You

Anger doesn’t touch this feeling. This is rage so pure it feels like fire in your veins.

You want to:

Send the letter to everyone he knows
Post the timeline of his betrayal on Facebook
Tell Brittany exactly what she’s won – a man who abandons family
Burn everything he ever touched
Sue for everything including his soul
Make him hurt the way you’re hurting
Show up at her Pilates class
Become the crazy ex-wife they’ll joke about

But you won’t. Because you have children watching. Because you’re better than he deserves. Because the best revenge is supposed to be living well, even though right now you can’t imagine living at all.

The rage has nowhere to go. It sits in your chest like molten lead. It makes your hands shake. It makes you understand crimes of passion. It makes you Google things like “alienation of affection lawsuits” and “revenge porn laws” and “how to destroy someone legally.” It makes you into someone you don’t recognize, someone capable of violence, someone who understands how love becomes hate.

Reflection Check-In #4

What small step toward survival can you take today?

⬜ A) Call the lawyer – getting legal protection is urgent
The emotional processing can happen alongside the practical protection. Both matter

⬜ B) Tell one trusted friend the whole truth
You need at least one person who knows everything. Isolation makes trauma worse

⬜ C) Move his things to one room – reclaim your space
You don’t have to live surrounded by his presence. Box it up. Take your home back

⬜ D) Block her on everything – stop the torture
Looking at her Instagram is self-harm. Block her. You don’t need that information

⬜ E) Make one decision that’s purely yours
Paint a wall. Change your hair. Buy new sheets. Something that marks the beginning of after

⬜ F) Document everything for the divorce
Channel the rage into preparation. Screenshot. Save. Document. Protect yourself legally

⬜ G) Other:
Any step toward survival counts. Even tiny movements forward matter

The Specific Hell of Watching Him Flaunt Happiness

He’s posting photos with her. Publicly. Brazenly. As if your family never existed.

Beach selfies. Gym videos. Breakfast in bed (in the bed you picked out together). “Living my best life” captions. Heart emojis. The kinds of photos he never posted with you because he “wasn’t into social media.” Apparently, he is now. Apparently, Brittany’s taught him how to use Instagram. Or maybe she just made him want to document life in a way you never did.

Your friends screenshot them and send them “in case you need them for the divorce.” What you need is to not see his hand on her 28-year-old ass. What you need is to not know they went to that vineyard you always wanted to visit. What you need is to not see him smiling like he never smiled in your last five years of photos.

Is he happier? Or is this the euphoria of new sex, uncomplicated by mortgages and teenagers and aging parents and real life? Is she better? Or is she just newer, unmarked by his disappointments, not yet requiring anything beyond orgasms and availability?

The Future You Lost vs. The Future You Can’t Imagine

You had plans. Specific, detailed, researched plans.

The future that died:

Renewing vows at 20 years in Hawaii
Being empty nesters who travel
Grandchildren you’d raise together
Retirement in that cabin you’d bookmarked
Growing old as that cute elderly couple
Dying together, or at least mourned by each other

The future you can’t see:

Dating with three kids and trust issues
Sex with someone who isn’t him after 19 years
Single parenting through teenage years
Attending your kids’ weddings alone
Becoming a grandmother without a grandfather
Aging alone
Dying alone

The second list is scarier than the first. The first was fantasy. The second might be reality. You’re 41. If you live to 80, that’s 39 years of what? Of whom? With whom? The math of remaining life feels impossible when computed alone.

What Brittany Doesn’t Know (But Will Learn)

She thinks she won. She got the man, the romance, the proof she’s irresistible. Here’s what she actually won:

A man who abandons family when bored
A liar who maintained deception for 11 months minimum
A coward who leaves via letter
A middle-aged man who’ll age rapidly without the wife who managed his health
A father whose children hate him
A partner who’ll compare her to the 19-year investment he threw away
Someone who’ll leave her for the next upgrade when she hits 35

She doesn’t know yet that:

He snores (the CPAP machine isn’t sexy)
He has that recurring back problem
He’s terrible with money
He drinks too much when stressed
He’ll expect her to handle everything like you did
His mother is passive-aggressive
His father has dementia genetics
He’ll cheat on her too (once a cheater…)

Let her have him. Let her wash his underwear with the skid marks. Let her handle his moods when work goes badly. Let her realize the sex slows after the conquest is complete. Let her discover that the romantic hero becomes a middle-aged man with erectile dysfunction and credit card debt.

Your marriage is dead. Your future is destroyed. Your heart is shattered. But you’re free of a man who was capable of this. She’s stuck with him.

The Permission Nobody Else Will Give You

Be angry. Be vengeful. Be bitter. Be broken. Be whatever you need to be to survive this.

You don’t have to be the bigger person. You don’t have to wish them well. You don’t have to “move on” or “let go” or “forgive for your own peace.” Not yet. Maybe not ever. You’re allowed to hate him for as long as hate keeps you standing.

You’re allowed to:

Hope she cheats on him with someone younger
Wish him erectile dysfunction
Want his business to fail
Celebrate when his knees give out
Smile when karma arrives (and it will)
Take everything in the divorce
Tell the truth to everyone
Refuse to make this easy for him

You’re also allowed to:

Still love who he used to be
Miss the marriage you thought you had
Grieve the family that’s broken
Feel everything simultaneously
Change your mind about forgiveness daily
Some days want him back (trauma bonds are real)
Not know how to move forward

The letter on the kitchen table didn’t just end your marriage. It ended your ability to trust, your sense of safety, your understanding of reality. You’re not just grieving him. You’re grieving yourself – the woman who believed in forever, who trusted completely, who loved without suspicion.

That woman is gone. The woman reading that letter is long gone. What grows from these ashes is unknown, but she’ll never be that trusting again. Maybe that’s tragedy. Maybe that’s wisdom. Right now, it’s just survival.

Brittany can have him. The 28-year-old Pilates instructor with the tight ass and empty head can have your leftovers, your sloppy seconds, your discarded husband. You had him when he was worth having. She’s getting the corrupted version, the man willing to abandon everything for fresh skin.

Your children will heal with therapy and time and your love. You’ll build something – different, harder, but yours. The letter on the kitchen table was an ending, but not yours. His. The end of his integrity, his honor, his worthiness. You’re still here. Still breathing. Still becoming whatever rises from betrayal this profound.

He thought you were replaceable. He was wrong. He’s the one who got replaced – with your own damn self.

Frequently Asked Questions

Is it normal to feel this level of rage about the affair and abandonment?

The rage you’re experiencing – the white-hot, consuming, sometimes frightening intensity of it – is completely normal after betrayal this profound. You’re processing multiple traumas simultaneously: the affair, the abandonment, the public humiliation, and the destroyed future. Your nervous system is responding to a genuine threat to your survival (emotional, financial, social). This rage usually peaks in the first three months, then comes in waves during triggers like seeing them together or dealing with divorce proceedings. The intensity often surprises people who’ve never felt anything this powerful before. Channel it into legal protection, physical exercise, journaling, or therapy. The rage is actually mobilizing you out of collapse – it’s serving a purpose. Let it fuel your survival, not your destruction.

Why did he leave me for someone so much younger – am I really that inadequate?

His choice of a 28-year-old isn’t about your inadequacy – it’s about his terror of aging and mortality. Men who leave established families for women young enough to be their daughters aren’t upgrading; they’re regressing. She represents escape from responsibility, a return to youth, validation of his fading virility. You represent reality – mortgages, teenagers, aging parents, actual life. He didn’t choose better, he chose easier. He chose someone who doesn’t know his weaknesses, hasn’t seen him fail, doesn’t remember when he had hair. This is about his character failure, not your worth.

Should I tell my kids the truth about why he left?

Children deserve age-appropriate truth, not protective lies that gaslight their reality. Your teenagers already know something massive is wrong. Lying makes you untrustworthy when they need stability. You don’t need to share every cruel detail, but “Dad fell in love with someone else and left” is truth they can process. Avoid editorializing (“Dad’s a piece of shit”) even when accurate. Focus on facts: “Dad made choices that hurt our family” rather than interpretations. They’ll form their own opinions based on his actions. Protect them from details that would traumatize without helping them understand. But don’t protect him from consequences by lying about what he did.

How do I stop obsessively checking her social media and comparing myself to her?

The comparison addiction is trauma response – your brain trying to understand the threat that destroyed your life. Every photo is information-gathering about your perceived failure. But she’s not your competition; she’s a symptom of his crisis. Block her on everything immediately. When you unblock to check (you will), block again. Ask a friend to change your passwords temporarily. The comparison is self-harm disguised as research. You’re comparing your lived-in, life-giving body to someone who hasn’t done anything yet. It’s like comparing a library to an empty notebook. One has stories, the other just potential. Every time you look, you retraumatize yourself. Stop giving her and him that power.

Will the humiliation of being left for a younger woman ever go away?

The specific humiliation of becoming a cliché – “first wife traded in for younger model” – cuts deep because it feels like public confirmation of female inadequacy. But here’s what actually happens: Over time, people see him as the cliché, not you. The middle-aged man with the inappropriately young girlfriend becomes the joke. You become the survivor. The humiliation transforms into his shame, not yours. Most people are thinking “What an ass” about him, not “What’s wrong with her” about you. The women understand. The good men are disgusted by him. The humiliation fades as his new relationship inevitably shows cracks and you rebuild into something stronger than before.

End Note

The letter on the kitchen table said he found someone younger, tighter, better. What it actually said was that he’s terrified of aging, incapable of honor, and willing to traumatize his entire family for the fantasy of renewed youth.

You thought you were in a marriage. Turns out you were in a one-woman show, performing happiness for an audience already gone. The Pilates instructor with her 28-year-old body didn’t steal him. She exposed him. He was always capable of this betrayal. Now you know.

Your grief is complicated by rage, humiliation, and the mindfuck of being blindsided. This isn’t just divorce – it’s psychological annihilation. Be gentle with yourself as you rebuild from ground zero. Some bombs don’t leave survivors. You survived.

The letter said you weren’t enough. The letter lied. You were too much – too real, too grown, too much of a mirror reflecting his mortality. Let Brittany be his fountain of youth. You get to be something better: free.

The Letter on the Kitchen Table Said He Found Someone Younger, Tighter, Better

Time to Mourn