My Husband Told Me He Couldn't Be Married Anymore — So I Made A Decision I've Kept Secret For 12 Years

In 2010, after a 17-year marriage, my husband asked for a divorce, saying he couldn’t be married anymore.

We had two sons, 14 and 16, not quite two years apart, whom I had nursed over four years straight. My once-perky breasts weren’t the same after. Whose are? They weren’t terrible, just more deflated, like a helium balloon the day after a birthday party.

I used to joke with my husband that I was planning to have breast surgery when I finished nursing. We had laughed hysterically about my desire for surgery because we both knew I was terrified of hospitals and drugs. I was an au naturel granola girl who hadn’t even had caffeine until her mid-30s. I never smoked a cigarette or tried an illegal substance either. Only when I have a migraine do I hesitantly swallow an Advil.

But after my husband asked for a divorce, something inside of me shifted. If I was going back on the market, I needed my before-childbirth body back. Before kids, my breasts were always my standout feature. Not that I showed them off, because I was horribly shy, but because of my petite frame, people couldn’t help but notice my chest. I wasn’t even 5 feet tall, and I was just over 100 pounds, but I had a 32DDDD, according to measurements taken in high school by a saleslady in Victoria’s Secret.

After pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding, my breasts got even more humongous. I could barely contain them in a swimsuit when I brought my sons to the pool. I looked like Dolly Parton without the blond hair and form-fitting clothing. Instead, I hid behind XXL T-shirts, not wanting an ounce of attention.

As we were going through legal proceedings for our divorce, I demanded that my soon-to-be ex-husband give me money for a breast makeover. (He was the primary