Living on a horse farm alone after infidelity and divorce.
My husband, on the other hand, was audaciously remade as if he had been through an episode of “Queer Eye.” The man who never shaved and wore only muck boots suddenly shifted into metrosexual country squire -- skinny jeans, a vast collection of Fedora hats, Italian leather shoes, and enough tweed jackets to attire a tea party at Downton Abbey. “His soul is hijacked,” I observed to my friend, Melissa.“Maybe what you had in those early years was the best of him, and now it’s all spent,” she said.That was some consolation; that I was loved by a man who tried to be good until his resources ran out.
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