Twelve years ago today, I got married. 

I was twenty.  He was twenty-two. 

We had our wedding and reception at a church.  We went back to our apartment and opened all our gifts and watched BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S.  When we went to bed, I wore a really long, white nightie with a sheer robe--an ensemble that I've since used as an angel costume.

Thirteen months later, our divorce was finalized. 

He didn't show up for the hearing.  He didn't have to because in Washington, legally ending a marriage requires the physical presence of only one of the parties involved.  Still, I will never forget being in that court room with my mom beside me and realizing that he really wasn't coming to see it through. 

Whatever happened between us is exactly that to me most of the time:  whatever.  But it still stings--just a little bit--when I remember that he chose to make me end it on my own.