When novelist Jane Green realised she and her husband were having the same argument over and over again, it became clear that the time had come to end things. A year on, her friends think she’s had a happy divorce but, she reflects, is that ever really possible?

Last week I received an email from my husband informing me that he was no longer my husband. Because I am currently living thousands of miles away from him in Marrakech and he is in our home in Connecticut and because we had handled our divorce remotely, via Zoom mostly, filing our papers with the judicial courts, he had suddenly thought to go online and check our status. He discovered that it was official – our divorce had been signed off by a judge.

He is now my ex-husband. And even though I left him, even though I had been unhappy for some years before our split, even though I remain sure that this is the right decision, that we had grown far enough apart that it felt both impossible and wrong to find our way back, I burst into tears.

I felt no sense of relief; there would be no divorce parties celebrating my newfound freedom. I felt instead only a profound sadness at the death of a dream; the end of a marriage to a man I loved deeply, a man I still love, even though we were making each other miserable.

Some might say we have had a good divorce.

Certainly, I think we have emerged if not friends, then on friendly terms; I do see friendship in our future. I hope that when I next go back to the States, for Thanksgiving with my children, he will join us. He is not the father of my children, but raised them, and was the primary father figure during their formative years.

I had four children, he had two. For much of that time, all six lived with us, under one roof. When they forgot homework, needed lunch dropped off, or had to be ferried to doctors and sports games, he stepped up while I stayed home, writing novels, trying to make enough money to support us all. A decision that worked beautifully when the children were young, when I was making enough money to enable my spouse to be a stay-at-home dad, but didn’t work so well once the children were older, more independent, once my career changed and my income was diminished.

I would wake up at night feeling as if I couldn’t breathe, terrified that my sole income simply wasn’t enough to support six children; terrified that we would lose everything, that we couldn’t afford our life. My husband was working by that time, part-time, as a coach; there weren’t nearly enough clients to make a dent.

During the pandemic, we had no choice but to take advantage of the crazy market, selling our beautiful rambling home on the water, moving into a tiny beach cottage that I had bought decades prior. This was a house that was meant to be my nest egg, an investment so I would never have to worry about finances again. I was never supposed to live in it.

That tiny 1200 sq ft beach cottage was suddenly our home, and on some level, I think I knew we wouldn’t survive it. I had no room of my own, no kitchen big enough to host our friends – as a committed homebody and enthusiastic cook, nowhere am I happier than gathering family and friends at home and feeding them the kind of food that makes them feel loved.

There was no room for that. There was no space for six children all now young adults. Two of the bedrooms were used as my office and a TV room. When the children came home from university, they camped out on daybeds. None of us could breathe.

There were two places I found the space I needed. Our garden, which was lushly beautiful in summer, and Marrakech, where I had set a couple of my novels. Eventually, I hatched a plan to escape the cold Connecticut winters. With our children now all at work or college, I would head back over there, rent a private riad. And I would write.

I thought a few months would be all I needed to find myself again, that my husband would eventually visit, but life had different plans. On a cold January day, we had the same argument – finances, his inability to say no to everyone except me. We had had this same argument for years, except this time, instead of each cooling off for a few hours then resuming until the next time, this nothing argument turned out to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I didn’t realise it at the time. I flew to Marrakech knowing I needed time to figure this out, to see how I felt. I flew to Marrakech with no idea if I could save my marriage, but I wanted to try. I jumped into therapy, online support groups, coaching classes. I started meditating again.

But within a few weeks, I understood that there wasn’t a way to work things out, that the dynamic of our marriage was never going to change. However much love there was, I couldn’t go back to a life where I had no autonomy whatsoever.

It has been 10 months from separation to divorce – surprisingly quick – and while not painless, it has been infinitely less painful, less ugly than many of the divorces I have observed. The best decision we made was to avoid litigation. In America, particularly in wealthy towns such as the one in which we lived, the only people to get rich from divorce are the lawyers. I am sure there are ethical divorce lawyers but I have not come across them yet.

During my previous divorce, I experienced lawyers who say they are collaborative, who will get you through this as quickly and inexpensively as possible, only to deliberately stir the pot, roll their eyes in disgust at your husband’s “narcissism” (their term, not mine), clearly trying to whip up anger and discord, stretch that divorce, and their fees, out as long as possible.

It’s not that there wasn’t resentment. Occasionally, there were biting emails, sharp comments said in mediation, which was done over Zoom, but we tried not to dwell on it. At its core, I believe that neither of us wanted to destroy the other, nor punish the other for whatever transgressions we may have privately thought had been committed against us.

Ultimately, I believe our 18 years together and 15 years of marriage, had run its natural course. We had many wonderful years but had grown further and further apart, barely spending any time together, barely talking. I was 55, my husband 60, and I knew there was so much ahead of me, so much life to be lived, none of which would happen in a small suburban life that had become utterly stultifying. We had a chance at something different.

We found a brilliant mediator, a man who was calm, and wise, to help direct us to write our own terms. It wasn’t always easy. I wanted to separate completely from everything in my married life, including my house; my husband wanted to stay in the house, to find a way for me to leave equity there so that could happen.

I tried very hard to do that, until I realised that I was repeating the same patterns as in both my marriages – subjugating my own needs in order to make someone else happy. I needed to build my own life, and there was no way around that. It became heated, and we quickly realised that we were each too tender to discuss things in the same room. Our mediator worked with us individually, directing us to sensible decisions, to reasonable terms. I felt heard, and supported. I know my husband felt the same, which is a rare gift when you are dealing with two bruised people in pain.

I chose not to take divorce advice from friends. There were plenty of people who tried to advise me, insisting I go through litigation, insisting I start to play hardball, stop caring about his wellbeing, and I hated it. It stirred up negativity, even though they wanted to protect me, but I knew I was in good hands with the mediator, and shut down well-meaning friends who were sometimes outraged on my behalf.

When we were on Zoom together, it was sometimes excruciatingly painful. I had to hide my husband’s face, for it hurt too much to see his pain. Sometimes he would cry. Sometimes I would cry. I had never understood how difficult it would be to reach this stage, to divorce someone you still love, but can no longer live with.

I last saw him this summer when I went to pack up my things. He got the house in the divorce, and being there to pack was brutally hard. I stayed with friends, and when my children came up for the weekend, they stayed with him, in that tiny beach cottage, because as squashed as they were, it still felt like home. Which was perhaps the hardest thing of all.

I will always be grateful to this lovely man for the many, many good years we shared. For the wonderful children we raised, for the beautiful life we built, even if we found ourselves wanting different things out of life, on very different paths. If there is such a thing as a good divorce, we have had a good divorce. We were able to split our finances in a way where we both got what we wanted and needed.

I am living in Marrakech for now, about to buy a riad, and very happy to be on my own. I dabbled on dating apps this summer, met some wonderful people, and a few duds, had a couple of flirtations and realised that I am in no position for a relationship, or dating, or love. The only person I am interested in dating right now is myself.

I have found myself again, having lost myself completely towards the end of the marriage, my unhappiness seeing me withdraw not only from my husband but from life itself. Onwards we each go, knowing that we will always be bound together by our shared history, our children, and yes, even by love.