Don't Blame Me

By Carly Snow

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 26, 2010
• ISBN: 9781664168428

Carly Snow

Carl Snow appeared to have it all—doctor husband, four lovely children, nice house, expensive car and all that was needed to maintain a comfortable suburban lifestyle. But one thing was missing: happiness. After 20 years of marriage, she found herself alone. As her husband spent more and more time at the office and writing for medical journals, she was left on her own to care for the children, to celebrate holidays, and even to go on vacations. Finally Ms. Snow could take it no longer; she decided to get a divorce. Don’t Blame Me. Chronicles the struggles of a determined woman, unaware of the many pitfalls she would encounter, to reach a divorce settlement and build a new life for herself and her children. Ms. Snow takes the reader through various stages of a process that will only be too familiar to other s who have found themselves in her position: finding a lawyer that will ensue she receives an equitable settlement; adapting to a considerably reduced and much less comfortable lifestyle; coping with her children’s anger in the face of circumstances they are powerless to control. Later, there is the pain of constant rejection when searching for a job in a society that gives little value to years of experience raising children; the disappointment of re-entering the dating scene and failing to connect with a suitable partner; the humiliation to borrow money from friends in order to make ends meet. Having grown in a very modest two-room house as part of a large family, Ms. Snow contrasts the domestic lives of her Jewish forebears with her own through flashbacks that portray a startlingly different mentality and mode of existence. Her Jewish sensibility is also conveyed through vivid dreams that reveal; her unmistakable sense of guilt, as well as through the stories of other divorcees awaiting finalizing of papers she encounters in a Jewish courtroom. Ms. Snow’s cautionary tale concludes with a list of “do’s and don’ts” for those contemplating divorce, which should be compulsory reading for anyone embarking upon the process without the adequate advance preparation. Readers will not only enjoy the book’s engaging story but find it eminently practical as a reference work.

Book preview

Don’t

Blame

Me

Carly Snow

Edited by Mary Lynn Hanley

Don’t Blame Me summary by Mary Lynn Hanley

Copyright © 2010 by Carly Snow.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Based on a true story. All names have been changed.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/09/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Acknowledgements

I dedicate this book to G 3499.png d, my four children, and to my father-in-law whose memory will live with us always. My children will forever carry the torch that he left behind.

A song of ascents. From the depths I called You, Hashem.

– Psalms 130:1

Do not be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better. What if they are a little coarse, and you may get your coat soiled or torn? What if you do fail, and get fairly rolled in the dirt once or twice? Up again; you shall never be so afraid of a tumble.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

1

Dear Glenn,

Yesterday was our anniversary. Sadly, I did not even remember it; but sometimes when I am alone, I try to analyze our twenty years of marriage and wonder where those years have gone. I try very hard to dig into my memories and remember our life together. I don’t see us together, but let me tell you what I do see: I see myself giving birth to our second child and your father coming to pick me up, and you are not there. I see myself giving birth to our twins and your father coming to pick me up, and you are not there. I see myself going with the children to after-school activities, doctors’ appointments, dentists’ appointments, carpooling all day long; you are not there.

I see myself crying hysterically when you informed me that my father had passed away and you walking out the garage door with your black briefcase, wishing me to have a good day. I see myself going to my father’s funeral, devastated, saying goodbye to my father’s body, and you are not there. I see myself during the holidays, Friday night dinners, eating with the children, and you are not there. I see myself sitting in the waiting room of the hospital getting ready to have the procedure done on my hand, surrounded by couples comforting each other, holding hands, and you are not there. I see myself crying – frustrated, alone, unhappy, lonely – and you are not there.

Now, it has been eighteen months since our divorce. I took time out. I stopped the bleeding, and I am starting to shift the blame from you. It’s no longer 100 percent; the blame is shifting 70/30 because now maybe it’s me who couldn’t hear your silence, maybe it’s me who didn’t know how to take the little that you knew how to endow me with. Maybe it was me who didn’t know how to allow you to crack the fence I built around myself and the children. Maybe it’s me who didn’t know how to penetrate the recesses of your soul.

Last week, I read an article in the New York Times about a woman who said she wouldn’t kill herself if her children were to die but she would if her husband would. At first, I was angry with her. How could she think like that? I would die for my children, all of them; but after I read the article again, I realized how lucky she is to have someone to wake up to, knowing that her life would stop if something were to happen to him. I was not that lucky. And now, Glenn, I hope that you too have analyzed our life together; and if not, please take time out and look into your soul, and tell me what the definition of a husband is. Please don’t say it’s a provider.

Best wishes,

Carly

October 11, 2003

N IGHT. I CAN’T sleep. I am lying on the white sofa, the sofa that has been my bed for quite a while.

In my hand, I hold the letter I received today from my husband’s lawyer.

It is quiet in the house. My four children are sleeping. It is so quiet that when I touch the letter, I hear only the rustling of the smooth paper against my fingers. I feel so happy, liberated. My wish has come true. Finally, I am getting divorced. I stare at the letter:

Dear Mrs. Snow,

I am representing Dr. Glenn Snow for all matrimonial issues. Please be advised to hire a lawyer. I hope we can solve the problems amicably.

Sincerely yours,

Harold Banks

I read it again and again. As I read it, I hear my husband descending from the second floor. Suddenly, his steps are so powerful. I hear every step he is taking. I wonder if the acceptance of our divorce has empowered him.

Or maybe he is just as relieved as I am. Usually he is so quiet. I have been with him for twenty years, and I have never heard him walking so forcefully. He comes down to the living room without saying a word. I am still holding the letter. I think we have said it all. He is circling around the house for no reason. I wonder what he is thinking about.

I am thinking about the day I met him. It was November 17, 1982. He was cute, thin. He had light hair and was wearing dark corduroy pants and a blue sweater. His thick eyelashes reminded me of the Sesame Street character Snuffleupagus. They say that forty days before a person is born, a voice from heaven declares who that person is to marry. Something about Glenn captivated me.

We spent most of our dates in Central Park. There, always on the same bench, we sat, talking about G 10027.png d, religion, sometimes even politics. He had a sense of humor. Sometimes we sat idly, watching the trees folding inward. In the winter, we played with snowballs like two teenagers, laughing at stupid jokes. Afterward, we always went to the nearby restaurant to eat onion soup.

Other times, we just sat at home. I taught him words in Italian, and he taught me the rules of football. He promised me that the day I would understand the game, he would marry me. (Until this day, aside from touchdown, I still don’t understand the game.) After a few months, I met his parents, his brother, and his sister. I felt very comfortable with them, and at the end of that night, I was happy to be part of his wonderful family. I loved him, and I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life.

I take the letter. I fold it, once, twice. I fold it again and place it underneath the white sofa. I start to walk through the house, the house that has been mine for the last fifteen years. The living room is long and spacious. The walls that have breathed in our essences, our feelings, are standing lonely, betrayed. They are the same walls that have protected us all these years, the same walls that have stood alongside us in moments of happiness, in moments of sorrow. They are the same walls that never complained when we changed their color, from white to yellow and from yellow to mauve, and never raised their voices when we hammered in nails to hang pictures, the pictures that now stand in rows, like a gallery. Even when we ignored their deepening cracks, the walls kept quiet and continued to breathe us in, without protest.

The entire house, too, continues in its quietness. But now the silence is different. It is caressing, accompanying me as I walk, slowly.

To my right, the green silk curtains salute me, embracing the windows behind them. On the fireplace are lined family pictures: my husband, our four children, and me, tan, wearing shorts and T-shirts, riding bicycles on the beach in South Carolina.

This is how it was. Every year, after the children came home from sleep-away camp, we went on a family trip, usually driving in the family SUV. I can still hear the screaming, When are we going to get there? I need to go to the bathroom! I remember asking Daniel if he is buckled in and his confident answer, Absolutely! letting me know that, of course, he isn’t. I remember how, on the drives back, we always promised ourselves that this was the last time.

And now, I feel so light, as if gravity does not have an effect on me. Twenty years of marriage falls from me.

The soft quiet continues to escort me. I am standing in the front of the family room. Our family’s room. On the shelves are piles of toys and games, two broken PlayStations, hundreds of Lego pieces, and puzzle pieces that don’t fit together, markers without caps. I stare at the multitude of toys, and I cannot help but remember the life I had when I was growing up.

I lived with eight siblings in a two-room house, not two bedrooms, two rooms. One room served as a living room and dining room in the morning and as a bedroom at night where we slept, four girls and my grandmother who lived with us. There was very little furniture. On the left side, there was a faded maroon sofa and in the middle of the room, a big brown table with three legs and, for support, a piece of wood placed where the fourth leg should have been. The second room had only four beds. That is where my parents and my four brothers slept. Sometimes, I was jealous of my friends who lived in a house with several rooms and had a corner of their own. But I don’t recall that I was unhappy.

We didn’t have desks. Our homework was done on a hard pillow. At the beginning of each year, we each received one notebook, two pencils, and one eraser. When we used up the notebook, we had to erase its contents and start again. There were no replacements for lost pencils or a whittled eraser. In the event that any of us did lose this precious instrument, we then took the inside of a bread loaf and used it as an eraser. And for glue, we used a mixture of flour and water. Still, we never complained; we were happy.

We grew up without electricity. That meant no radio, no television, no washer or dryer. I remember my mother doing the laundry, grinding it on a piece of wood with her hands that had slowly grown red and cracked and then hanging the clothes on a rope outside. This method was fine in the summer, but in the winter, on snowy and rainy days, we often had to wait several days to receive our clothes back, not even completely dry. Going to the toilet was also a real experience, as we did not have water for flushing. In order to flush the toilet, we had to take water from a bucket and pour it into the bowl. But still, I do not recall that I was unhappy.

The bathroom and the shower were located outside, about five meters away from our rooms. There were no tiles on the walls, no fancy knobs; there was one toilet and a small sink in which we washed our hands. On the windowsill of the shower rested one tube of toothpaste and one bottle of shampoo, both of which were meant to be used for the whole month. Hot water was only available in the summer; in the winter, we took baths in the family room in a portable tub made of chrome, using hot water that Mother heated in the teakettle. We never complained, and we never took numbers to wait in line.

These conditions were nonetheless difficult on Grandma, who was forever sick with unknown diseases and spent all her days and nights in bed. I remember Father and Mother holding her, escorting her to the bathroom, and she with her little steps and heavy body, walking slowly, with bare feet embroidered with green and blue veins. And when Father was not home to help her, my sister Dinah and I were the officers on duty. The only reason we agreed to help her was the bribe she gave us: one plum, which she had been saving from our family’s special weekend dessert.

The only vacation we took was at the end of August in the steamy, humid, hot weather, with nothing to do and no camp to attend. That week, my mother rushed excitedly but painstakingly to prepare herself for the yearly vacation; she washed her green straw basket and carefully chose the towels that were designated for our annual use. On the day of the vacation, usually in the last week of August, she prepared our favorite sandwiches – tuna with tomato sauce inside pitot – that she had baked the night before, and to those she added four cucumbers and a few peaches for each child.

For us, to travel by bus was a novelty. I remember my sister and me fighting at the bus stop over who was to hold the tickets. The ride was an hour from our house, and I always hastened to sit up front so that I could sit next to the window. I wondered how everything was moving – the houses