By Shauna Shapiro, PhD
Eleven years ago, I went through a painful divorce.
I was hurt and alone. The damage was irreparable and the choice to leave was inevitable, but I still felt like a failure. No one in my family had ever divorced. My grandparents had been married for seventy years; my parents forty. All my aunts and uncles had thriving marriages, my sister was (and still is) happily married to her college sweetheart, and my brother had just gotten engaged to the woman of his dreams. Marriage in my family
was sacrosanct.
The prospect of upending my life was terrifying. But that was nothing compared to my fear of how the divorce would affect our three-year-old son Jackson.
Despite my fears, I packed up everything I could fit into my tiny car, buckled Jackson into his car seat, and drove to Marin County, California where my grandparents lived. I needed to be close to family. And Nana and Grandpa were my home.
Once we’d crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and exited at Sausalito, we passed a small apartment building with a “For Rent” sign out front. I could tell just from the outside that it was out of my price range, but they were holding an open house that day, so I figured I’d take a quick look around. The owner, a large man with striking features and ebony skin, answered the door.
He warmly greeted us: “I’m Ishmael — ” and then, observing my face more closely, and my car out front with all my belongings visibly packed into it: “Looks like you’re having a tough day.”
I told him I’d just left my husband and was looking for a place to live. And then, much to my surprise, I burst into tears.
His reaction I will never forget. “Young lady, sounds like you need a break. How about if I reduce the rent and you pay cash for the first six months?”
He had no reason to help me, but he did. We worked out the logistics and he introduced his nephew, who would be my landlord. As I left, he gently said, “Remember this when you can help someone else...read more
