Tonight is an anniversary. A year ago, on December 19, after we had all watched a movie together and the kids had gone to bed, Ljubica and I stayed up. It was a Saturday night. She wanted to talk with me. Rather, she wanted to talk at me. I stayed up with her until 1:30 AM.

The content of her speech was simple: she was divorcing me. Why? Because marrying me had been a mistake. Because we couldn’t do anything together. Because I made her have sex with me. Because she would never subject herself to be again. Because she would never submit herself to me again. Because she wanted her own home with her own rules and her own language. Because she did not want to be my wife. Because I was worse than a child molester. Because I was worse than a rapist.

I protested. “It’s not true,” I said, “that we can’t do anything together.” “We can work this out,” I pleaded. “Let’s get counseling,” I begged. “Let’s try something we’ve never tried—let’s ask professionals to help us.”

“No,” she responded. She had made up her mind. Our marriage was over.

I went to bed. She didn’t come. Maybe she slept in our daughter’s room. Maybe she didn’t sleep at all.

The sun came up. The kids woke up. Agnes and I went to church. Ivan didn’t come. Was he sick? I can’t remember. Probably he just didn’t feel like coming. Probably I didn’t want to risk an argument with Ljubica by insisting that he come.

After church Agnes and I went shopping for Christmas presents for Ljubica. We went to Ross and bought her a new pair of shoes. They were the kind that have memory foam in the soles. They were designed to keep one’s feet comfortable all day.

(I’d never bought Ljubica a new pair of shoes before. She wouldn’t let me. And in thirteen years of marriage, I don’t think she ever even bought herself a new pair of shoes, either. Not because we didn’t have money. She could have bought a new pair of shoes whenever she wanted. But she never did.)

Nice shoes and other nice things from Ross. For Christmas. For her. The day after she told me that she had decided to divorce me.

Sunday night repeated Saturday night. We watched another movie. The kids went to bed. Ljubica and I sat in the living room. She seated herself in the same dark brown upholstered chair that she had occupied the night before. I call it the shit chair now. Ljubica sat in the shit chair and shit on our marriage. I sat on the couch and tried to find a way to clean up the shit.

“I promise not to ask you to have sex with me again,” I pleaded. “I promise….” “Let’s….” “I love you….” “We can….” “Let’s try….” I recycled my ragged entreaties like a worn-out beggar. Nothing worked. Nothing ever had. “No,” she said, again. It was over, she said. Never again would she subject herself to me. Never. I went to bed at 1:30 AM. She didn’t come. Maybe she slept in our son’s room. Maybe she didn’t sleep at all.

Still, I’d bought her Christmas presents: a nice pair of shoes and other nice things from Ross.