A divorce after 50 years that she soon regretted

Ouadie Rhabbouron

The 50-year-old and 75-year-old Rose is a man who wants a divorce from Charles.

She felt claustrophobic and was convinced that he controlled her whole life.

Although Charles was sad and confused, he agreed. He didn't want to keep her in a relationship she no longer wanted.

 

 

Their lawyer even arranged a final dinner together.

But when Charles dimmed the lights and called her in – thinking of her eyesight and health – Rose saw this as a new act of control.

 

 

 

Charles Kapot van Verdriet has not yet bought the storm.

 

 

 

That evening Charles wrote her a heartfelt letter, describing his abiding love for her and explaining that his actions were born of concern, not control.

But he couldn't give it to her.

Because he didn't answer his phone and knew his wife had forgotten her medication, his fear turned to panic, which ended in a heart attack.

 

 

He was rushed to hospital while Rose, unaware of his condition, fought for what she thought was her long-awaited freedom.

 

 

 

When Rose finally discovered what had happened, her world came crashing down.

When she got home, she found a letter.

 

 

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I came home from deployment three days early. My daughter wasn’t in her room, and my wife said she was “at Grandma’s,” like that was normal. I drove there and found my seven-year-old in the backyard, standing in a hole and crying, because “Grandma said bad girls sleep in graves,” and when I lifted her out of the freezing dirt she clung to my neck and whispered, so softly I almost missed it, “Daddy… don’t look in the other hole.” My name is Eric McKenzie, I’m 34, and I live in rural Pennsylvania where the roads go dark fast and the cold feels personal. I’d imagined my first night home would be quiet, the kind of relief you can finally exhale into. Instead, the front door was unlocked. Not “I forgot” unlocked, but the kind that makes your instincts wake up before your brain does. Upstairs, my wife was passed out in yesterday’s clothes with an empty bottle on the nightstand. I didn’t even look at it twice, because Emma’s room was worse. Her bed was made, her nightlight was off, and her stuffed rabbit was gone. The silence in that room wasn’t peaceful, it was wrong. I shook my wife awake and asked one question. Where is our daughter. She blinked like she was swimming up from somewhere else and said, “At my mom’s,” then added too quickly, “I told you,” as if an email could explain a missing child at three in the morning. I drove through empty backroads with frost on the shoulders and the kind of quiet that makes every thought louder. By the time I turned down my mother-in-law’s gravel drive, her porch lights were on. The front door opened before I knocked. Myrtle Savage stood there in a nightgown, hair pulled tight, eyes already measuring me like she’d been warned. “She’s sleeping,” Myrtle said, and tried to block the hallway. “You’re going to upset her.” I walked past her anyway, and that’s when I heard the part that made my stomach drop. “You’ll wake the other children,” she snapped, like that was a normal sentence to say in your own house. I didn’t stop to argue. I followed the sound of thin crying out the back door into air that cut like glass. My flashlight swept the yard and landed on a hole deep enough to swallow a child’s legs. Emma was inside it, pajamas damp, cheeks streaked, hands shaking so hard she could barely hold them close to her chest. “Daddy,” she said, and it didn’t sound like a greeting, it sounded like relief collapsing. I lifted her out and she wrapped herself around my neck like she’d forgotten how to let go. Her skin was ice-cold, and her little body trembled against mine like a hummingbird. “She said bad girls sleep in graves,” Emma whispered, words catching in her throat. “She said I had to learn.” I didn’t ask what she’d done wrong, because I already knew the truth about “bad” in Myrtle’s world. Bad meant inconvenient, bad meant emotional, bad meant a child who didn’t obey fast enough. Then Emma tightened her grip and leaned into my ear. “Daddy… don’t look in the other hole.” I froze and turned my light. A few yards away, the ground was disturbed again, darker soil piled in a shape that didn’t belong, boards laid across it like someone tried to make it look normal from a distance. Myrtle’s voice floated from the back steps, sharp and annoyed, as if I was the problem. “She’s dramatic,” she said. “The cold teaches respect.” Emma’s face pressed into my shoulder and her whisper came again, smaller than before. “Please.” I held her tighter, stared at those boards, and felt something inside me shift from fear into focus. Then I reached out with one hand and touched the first plank. (Details are listed in the first comment.)