I did a little research, and discovered that the painkiller he was taking was one that people commonly became addicted to. “I’m wondering if maybe you should switch to a different medication,” I told Tuli carefully. “Do you think you might be developing a dependency to this stuff?”

Tuli’s face turned beet red. “You have no rachmanus!” he cried. “I’m in constant pain, and the only thing that helps me feel better is the meds. And now you want to take that away from me, too?”

I immediately apologized for my insensitivity, and refrained from bringing the matter up again. But the next time he asked me to refill the prescription, I made a surreptitious phone call to his doctor, Dr. Zaidberg.

“It does sound as though your husband is developing an addiction, if he hasn’t already,” he concurred. “You should definitely not fill the prescription. I need to see him and switch him to different medication.”

All I told Tuli was that I had spoken to the doctor, and that he wanted to see him before the prescription was refilled. But when he heard that, he went apoplectic. “You called the doctor without my permission?” he gasped. “I’ll never forgive you! I can never go back to Dr. Zaidberg now!”

This time, I didn’t apologize. “I can’t let you hurt yourself,” I said. “You’re becoming addicted to those pills, and you need to get help.”

Tuli’s eyes widened. “How dare you!” he whispered. With that, he turned and limped out of the room.

When I came home from work that evening, I found an empty house. I tried calling Tuli on his cell phone, but he didn’t answer. When he didn’t return that evening, I called his parents, and discovered that he was at their house, refusing to talk to me.

For the next three weeks, I didn’t see or hear from him. I left him messages and sent him emails saying that I was sorry, that I wanted to make up, and could he please come home, but he didn’t answer. Finally, he sent me an email that said: “Don’t call me anymore. You can have your lawyer speak to mine.” And he gave me the name and number of his divorce lawyer.

I was stunned. But only for a short while. When the full import of Tuli’s words sank in, I felt awash with relief. I would never have ended the marriage; I couldn’t walk out on a disabled husband. But he had decided of his own accord to leave, and he had stonewalled my attempts at reconciliation and even dialogue. So that meant I was free.

I had done everything in my power to be a good wife, taking care of Tuli physically and emotionally for four years and putting his wishes ahead of mine on every possible occasion. Now, with Tuli pursuing a divorce, I felt as though the sun had risen again for me.

That very day, I approached a local beis din and told them I was ready to accept a get. I knew a lot of horror stories about women who ended up as agunos, and I didn’t want that to happen to me. Since Tuli wasn’t willing to speak to me, the beis din sent him a hazmanah to issue the get.

In response, his lawyer — a high-priced, non-Jewish lawyer — sent me a letter stating that the jurisdiction of the beis din was not recognized, and summoning me to appear in court instead.

When I saw the court summons, I nearly fainted. Tuli was suing me for half a million dollars! Until he saw the money, I would not receive my get. He was claiming that I had been psychologically unwell and had subjected him to “ongoing emotional torment” for the duration of our marriage. Even more shocking, the letter stated that I was unfit to be teaching children, which I understood was a veiled threat that if I did not comply with his demands, my career as a teacher would be over.

Had he limited his fabrications to court, that would have been bad enough, but he didn’t. Within a matter of weeks after he walked out on me, my reputation had been seriously tarnished, because he and his family were telling people what a horrible wife I had been. (Oddly, none of them had ever complained about me before Tuli filed for divorce.) Not knowing what lies people were hearing and believing about me, I was ashamed to walk the streets or show my face in school.

A friend of mine, Mimi, had recently been involved in a messy divorce on behalf of a relative of hers, and she had some advice for me. “Hire a tough lawyer,” she said, “and give your ex an ultimatum: either he drops the lawsuit and agrees to stop badmouthing you, or you drag him through legal wrangling in court until he’s bankrupt. There are ways of using the courts to destroy someone, you know, and that’s exactly what he’s doing to you. You have to beat him at his own game and run up his legal bills until he has no choice but to give you a get, because he can’t afford to pay a lawyer. Otherwise, you’ll be left an agunah — without a penny, without a job, and without a reputation.”

A few other people I spoke to urged me to follow this advice. Distasteful as Mimi’s strategy sounded, I didn’t see an alternative. “Do you have a lawyer to recommend?” I asked her.

“I’ll get you a name,” she assured me.

I had thought my parents would be shocked when I told them I was getting divorced, but they were actually not surprised at all. “We’ve been watching you suffer for years,” my father said sadly. “But there was nothing we could do for you, so the least we could do was respect your decision to keep us out of things.”

I realized now how difficult it must have been for my family. For years, we had hardly spent any time with them, and they had been highly concerned about us. Well, now I was going to make up for lost time, by spending lots and lots of time with my nieces and nephews, most of whom I barely knew.

Now that I no longer had to protect my marriage, I could actually turn to my parents for support and advice. I told them about the court summons I had received, and described the massive lawsuit I was facing. “I have to get myself a shark of a lawyer to defend myself,” I lamented. “Tuli is forcing me to play his game and run up his legal bills until he has to withdraw the lawsuit.”

My mother raised an eyebrow. “He’s forcing you to do that?”

“Well, what other choice to I have?” I responded. “Should I sit back and let him drag my name through the mud, and pay him half a million dollars that I don’t have? I have to fight back! Otherwise I’ll be an agunah for the rest of my life.”

My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. “You could fight back, Yael,” she reflected. “But then what kind of person would you become?”

Her words were like a bullet between my eyes. Suddenly, a series of memories cascaded through my mind.

Dropping out of the accounting program. Driving Tuli to doctor appointments. Going to his parents for every Yom Tov. Filling and refilling his prescriptions. Trying to reconcile after he walked out.

I was that kind of person — not the kind of person who dragged the person I married through the mud in court. Even if he was doing just that to me.

In an instant, I made up my mind. “Mommy,” I said, “I will not destroy Tuli in court. I will not become that kind of person.”

I didn’t know how I would defend myself against the lawsuit and preserve my reputation, or whatever was left of it, but I did know with certainty that I was not going to stoop to the level of a court slugfest. “Hashem,” I prayed, “help me to avoid a chillul Hashem. Help me to handle this the right way.”

Later that day, Mimi called. “I have a lawyer for you. This guy knows how to play real dirty. Here, take his number.”

“Thanks, Mimi,” I said, “but I’m not comfortable hiring someone who plays dirty. It’s just not me.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she warned me. “This court stuff is serious business. It’s not just about money — your entire life is on the line. He’s out to destroy you.”

“I know,” I said simply. “But this isn’t the right route for me.”

What the right route was, I had no idea.

Two days later, while I was still mulling over my options, I got an email from Tuli’s lawyer. Tuli had decided to withdraw the lawsuit unilaterally, he wrote, and was prepared to give the get in beis din.

Why Tuli had changed his mind, the lawyer did not explain. Tuli’s only stipulation was that I agree never to contact him directly, and to send any communications via his lawyer. I was more than glad to accede to that condition.

Later, I found out what had happened. In the process of suing me in court, Tuli had been required to obtain documentation from medical professionals about his condition, and he had had no choice but to approach Dr. Zaidberg. Dr. Zaidberg had been so incensed that he called up Tuli’s lawyer and described how I had always accompanied him to every appointment and how devoted I had been to him. “If you pursue this lawsuit,” he warned, “I will personally appear in court and testify on the wife’s behalf.” Hearing this, Tuli’s lawyer advised him to drop the suit.

In hindsight, the decision not to wage an all-out court battle against Tuli worked in my advantage in a way I could not have foreseen. About a year after the divorce was finalized, I got married to a wonderful man, Yosef, who was a widower. He had heard the rumors Tuli had spread about me, and was concerned that I was indeed unbalanced. “Had you been involved in a nasty court battle with your ex-husband, I would never have agreed to go out with you,” he told me. “It’s only because I heard that you conducted yourself honorably after the split that I decided to give you a chance.”

And what a chance it has been. Today, I have a healthy husband, several beautiful children, and a happy, normal life.

I don’t consider the four years of my first marriage to have been a waste, though. Thanks to that experience, I know how to give unconditionally, how to put someone else’s needs before my own, and how to bow to Hashem’s will and let go of my own plans.

Most important of all, I can hold up a mirror to myself and be proud of the person I see.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 648)