Let me set the scene.
You’ve arranged to go out. You don’t particularly want to go and are not particularly blown away by what you’ll be wearing, or who else will be there. But you’ve still got to go anyway.
And it’s raining and cold. And you’ve got a headache or it’s the first day of a monstrous period.
And the house is especially tidy and quiet and fragrant. The lighting is low, everywhere is cosy. You have clean sheets on the bed, maybe a hot water bottle. Fresh cotton pjs are warming on the radiator. There’s a bottle of wine in the kitchen if you want, a good book you’re really into, and you won’t be disturbed, but still you have to dress up, and go and be pleasant. The clothes feel too tight, there’s a spot coming on your chin, the taxi is a bit late and it’s now pissing down.
And then you get a text to say the event is cancelled. 
You know that deep deep relief when something you just don’t want to do, doesn’t have to be done, and you can hop into bed and just breathe?
That’s what ending my marriage feels like. I was scared witless and yet it’s actually wondrous.
That’s all.