As a result of mismatched expectations, the sparkles in my eyes for Olivier began to grow dull. Had I been 21, I probably could have swung it, but I was 34 and had already learned from experience that you can’t turn daydreams into realities from the safety of your couch. I felt guilty when I didn’t work, but that didn’t seem to bother him.Īt first, I thought I could give up my life in New York and be happy in near-poverty with the older, beautiful French man, but that wasn’t the case-I simply wasn’t cut out to be the breadwinner in a relationship that could never be equal. I, on the other hand, was proud of my career as a writer and couldn’t get enough of it-so much so that I actually worked during our honeymoon. Olivier was content to work only a couple nights a week, singing covers at the cabaret where we first met, living on what little money that garnered. I think that’s what drew us to each other-all the differences.īut after awhile, those differences became the problem. He was also a born and raised Parisian and a hopeless romantic to his core, while I was a fast-talking, fast-walking New Yorker.
But after 20 short months of marriage, that’s exactly what happened.įrom the beginning, our relationship wasn’t easy Olivier was 13 years older than me and had two daughters from two previous relationships.
I would have laughed at the mere suggestion that after ghosting me for three months, he’d leave me for his new “soulmate,” a 21-year-old, and ultimately that I’d become a widow. When I married Olivier after moving to Paris and having a whirlwind romance, I couldn’t have imagined that it would end the way it did.
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