Could I hold it together as my marriage fell apart?

The kallah, radiant in her white gown and veil, is being led to the chuppah. She walks down the aisle and proceeds to walk seven times around her chassan, while two sets of proud parents look on. Off to the side stands a woman alone, crying.

That woman is me, the mother of the kallah.

I grew up in a family where we never spoke badly of people. If someone said or did something nasty, we assumed the person was having a bad day, or going through some difficulty in life, and continued to view the person as good.

I knew bad people existed, but I didn’t realize that good people could also be bad.

I got married over 30 years ago, before the concept of personality disorders was widely recognized. Accustomed as I was to seeing the good in people, for a long time I made excuses for the problematic behaviors my husband, Menashe, exhibited. When he borrowed large sums of money that we couldn’t afford to repay, I told myself that he would find a way to make the loan payments. When he squandered that money in high-risk investments, I told myself that he was simply trying to earn parnassah. When I learned that he was frequenting casinos and betting on sports matches, I told myself that he was under stress.

I had no idea, back then, that I was married to someone with the emotional intelligence of a 15-year-old, with all the risk appetite of an impetuous teenager and none of the maturity to take responsibility for the consequences of his actions. Menashe was helpful in the house and with our six kids, and was an upstanding member of the community — at least in the eyes of those to whom he didn’t owe money — so I tried to focus on the good and look away from his problematic behaviors, even as I struggled to cope with the fallout of his disastrous financial habits and emotional absenteeism.

Once, Menashe and I were at a park with the kids, when a long-haired, tattooed fellow with bulging biceps drove up beside us on a motorcycle. “We know where you are,” he snarled. Pointing to one of the kids, he told Menashe, “If you don’t pay up, we’ll get that one.”

Menashe’s response was to disappear. Our car was parked some 40 feet away, and the next thing I knew, he had driven off, leaving me to fend off the thug and take a taxi home with the kids. For months after that I did not allow the kids to walk outside alone, and I installed extra locks on our doors and windows, terrified as I was of a mafia-style hit on someone in the family.

That incident, which occurred some 15 years into our marriage, prompted me to insist that Menashe go for professional help. We saw a marriage counselor several times, after which Menashe was supposed to see him individually. For three months, Menashe reported to me enthusiastically the work he was doing, but I saw no change in him whatsoever. Eventually, concerned about the lack of progress, I called the marriage counselor myself.

He was baffled. “I’ve never seen your husband alone,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Menashe had been lying straight through his teeth.

I booked myself an appointment with the marriage counselor, and what he told me shocked me to the core.

“I’m the last person who would tell someone to get divorced,” he said, “but have you ever considered leaving the marriage?”