When I left Charlotte, I finally had a plan.
Not a perfect plan.
Not a long-term plan.
Just a plan.
Food.
Shelter.
Work.
Eric had reduced my entire life to three words.
At first it sounded overly simple.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized he was right.
I already had work.
Now I needed shelter.
Fortunately, I had a friend.
His name was Bob.
To this day, Bob remains one of my closest friends.
Not because of the bars.
Not because of the clubs.
Not because of all the crazy stories that came later.
Because when my life fell apart, he showed up.
He didn't have to.
He wasn't family.
He wasn't obligated.
He simply opened his door and gave me a place to stay.
I've never forgotten that.
Looking back, I wasn't at Bob's house very long.
To this day he still claims I was the best roommate he ever had.
That probably says more about his previous roommates than it does about me.
Bob lived a very different life than I did.
His father had been a respected doctor and had left him a substantial inheritance.
Unlike me, Bob wasn't counting every dollar.
He could afford nights out.
Expensive drinks.
Spontaneous adventures.
And Bob had no intention of letting me sit around feeling sorry for myself.
Most evenings he found some excuse to drag me out of the house.
Bars.
Clubs.
Restaurants.
Anywhere but sitting alone in a bedroom replaying my divorce.
One of his favorite destinations was a strip club.
Actually, favorite might be an understatement.
Bob had been there so many times he had a key card that allowed him through the VIP entrance.
The first time I saw it, I laughed.
Only Bob would have a VIP key card to a strip club.
The staff knew him.
The dancers knew him.
Everyone seemed to know Bob.
I was the complete opposite.
I watched my money carefully.
A few dollars on stage was one thing.
Hundreds of dollars for private dances wasn't happening.
The dancers figured that out pretty quickly.
The funny thing is that the clubs were never really the point.
The point was getting out.
The point was living.
The point was forcing me to acknowledge a reality I had spent months trying not to face.
I was single again.
Not separated.
Not working things out.
Not waiting for her to come back.
Single.
As painful as that realization was, there was something strangely freeing about it too.
The marriage was over.
The decision had already been made.
The future was unwritten.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn't trying to save something.
I was trying to figure out what came next.
The kids still visited occasionally.
At first fairly often.
Then every other weekend.
Then whenever schedules allowed.
Money was tight.
Most of my disposable income disappeared the moment they showed up.
Movies.
Food.
Activities.
Whatever I could afford.
I never really thought twice about it.
They were still my kids in all the ways that mattered.
Maybe not by blood.
But by love.
Life slowly began to settle into a routine.
Work during the day.
Friends at night.
Trying to rebuild one piece at a time.
The panic that had followed me north to Michigan was finally starting to fade.
For the first time in months, I wasn't thinking about survival.
I was thinking about tomorrow.
Before long, I found a small apartment of my own.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing impressive.
Just a place that belonged to me.
A place where I could close the door and begin rebuilding my life.
I remember carrying my belongings inside.
There wasn't much.
A few boxes.
A few memories.
A life reduced to what would fit in a car.
When everything was finally inside, I stood there for a while in the silence.
The marriage was over.
The old life was gone.
The future was uncertain.
But the apartment was mine.
For the first time since packing my car and driving north, I had a place of my own.
Somehow, after everything that had happened, I was starting over again.