The Longest Date: Life as a Wife Read Online Free

reset it. I would occasionally visit my ring, visit my old married self, but even with nobody present to witness it, I was aware of how pathetic I looked sitting in a bank cubicle modeling my engagement ring. So when I had the opportunity to return it to its rightful owner in the spirit of forgiveness and friendship, I jumped at the chance. I said, “With this ring, will you not marry me?” And we had a little moment, and he bought a little house, and that was that.
    Until now.
    In order to get a get, I would need to get back in touch with my ex-husband and persuade him to go before a panel of three Orthodox holy men and officially “release me.” The process is actually even more offensive than I am making it sound. The tradition is based on a completely sexist biblical verse (Deuteronomy 24:1), which states, in so many words: “A man takes a wife and possesses her. If she fails to please him because he finds something obnoxious about her, he writes her a bill of divorcement, hands it to her, and sends her away from his house.”
    First of all, I do not think my ex-husband found me obnoxious. He might have wished I had a penis, but if anything, I was the one who had grounds for “sending him away from my house.” However, with my wedding to Ian less than three months away and the hope of legitimate children on the horizon, I decided this was not the time to go Gloria Steinem on the Old Testament.
    When I called my ex-husband in Los Angeles (I was living in New York at the time), he was surprised to hear from me, happy to learn I was getting married, and a little dubious about what I was asking him to do. I assured him I would pay the fee and do all the homework; his only responsibility would be to show up. We decided that although it was possible to get a get without being in the same place, we would try to get ours the next time I was in Los Angeles. He even suggested we have a “get-together” afterward so I could meet his kids. I started to like the idea of a get. It sounded like it might be good closure after all.
    Our awkward reunion took place outside a barely marked industrial building that served as an office for the Orthodox rabbi whose name I had gotten through an online organization that facilitated gets. (Yes, there is such an organization, it’s based in Brooklyn, and operators are standing by.) We made small talk while I pressed the buzzer (You look good. You, too. How are your parents? How’s New York?) but it slowly became clear, as we ran out of chitchat, that nobody was responding to the buzzing. We called the rabbi’s number, which was his home number, and he answered, and that’s when we learned that there was confusion about the time and that we’d have to reschedule.
    We explained that we couldn’t reschedule. It had taken us over ten years to make this appointment.
    The rabbi sighed and said he would try to locate two witnesses, and we should give him an hour.
    That’s how it came to pass that we had some time to kill, and my ex-husband said his partner and kids were nearby shopping, so maybe we should have our “get-together” now. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, which seemed appropriately symbolic of our relationship, but we found a faux–French café nearby that would take us.
    It’s not often a girl gets to sit down with the man she thought she would have kids with and the man he did have kids with (not to mention the kids), but the truth is, they were a pretty perfect family without me. I had met my ex-husband’s partner at a Christmas party years earlier, and I liked him immediately. He was so handsome and kind and witty that I found it flattering to imagine he was the male version of me. They had since adopted two beautiful boys who looked as if they’d just crawled out of a Baby Gap ad. As I watched my ex-husband juggle juice boxes and crayons and children’s menus, he smiled at me and warned: “Get ready.”
    I was getting ready. I was trying to make