I was sixty-five years old when I finally used the debit card my ex-husband gave me on the day our divorce became official.
For nearly four years, it remained untouched inside a dusty shoebox at the back of my closet.
Not because I had forgotten about it.
Because I could not bring myself to look at it.
Some nights, after counting coins to purchase groceries, I would take out the box and stare at the card.
Other nights, after cleaning offices until my back ached with pain, I would hold it in my hand and wonder how thirty-seven years of marriage had ended with a piece of plastic and a four-digit PIN.