One of the first gifts Ljubica gave me when we were dating was a small book by Josh McDowell, More Than a Carpenter, translated into her native language. She wrote a nice note for me on the title page.

I had forgotten about the book and her note until yesterday when I finally unpacked my library. I came across it while I was putting my books on the shelves. Whimsically I remembered when Ljubica had given me the slender volume. I paused for a moment, holding it in my hands, unsure of the wisdom of rereading her pleasant words from fifteen years ago. I have experienced so much pain since then; the divorce has only cauterized deep spiritual and psychological lacerations that would have otherwise proven fatal. The scars have not yet healed. They still throb with pain.

I decided to reread the note. I opened the cover—and it was gone. Ljubica had gone through my library, found the book, and torn out the inscription. Whatever it said is now lost.

This is what she does: she tatters the past. Holding the evidence in my hands, I am reminded of the many times that she denigrated our marriage. I recall the innumerable times when she claimed that we could do nothing together, when she asserted that all we did was argue, when she opined that marrying was a mistake that could only be remedied by divorce. I experienced these times as an assault on myself. I felt that I was a good husband who strove to become a better one. Exacerbated, I would counter Ljubica’s verbal assault by recalling times when we had gotten along, when we had managed to enjoy ourselves together, when ostensibly we had given and received love from one another. “Don’t you remember when…?” I would cry. And then she would say it: “I was only pretending.”

Only pretending. Only pretending to enjoy herself. Only pretending that she wanted to be with me. Only pretending when she said on rare occasions, “I love you.” When my marriage would founder, I would reach into the past and find times of joy, only to have her smash them on the crags of pretense. What argument could I make in defense of the worthwhileness of our marriage when she denied that any time had been worthwhile?

Was she really pretending? A part of me wants to say, “no.” Another part of me says, “I’m not sure.” Regardless, I have invented an expression for it: painting the past black. This is what Ljubica does: she paints the past black. Where do you rest the goodness of your marriage when all is painted black? Nowhere.