We used to think marriage was forever.
Not because people didn’t change, or suffer, or dream of escape—but because the law once said: you cannot leave without a reason. Adultery. Abandonment. Abuse. There had to be fault. There had to be a wound. Marriage was a vow enforced not just by love, but by law.
But something shifted.
In the late twentieth century, across state lines and ideological divides, the law began to let go. No-fault divorce arrived not with fury, but with quiet reform. Legislators said: Let people choose. Let them be free. And so they were.
But freedom, as Margaret Brinig gently reminds us, is not without consequence.
Because when the law stopped demanding reasons to leave, it also stopped giving strength to those who wanted to stay.
This is the paradox of modern marriage: in trying to make it kinder to exit, we made it harder to trust. The safety net of permanence frayed. The legal architecture that once surrounded marriage—designed to hold it steady in the storms—was dismantled in the name of autonomy.
And what remained was a kind of fragile hope: that love alone would hold.
But love, we know, is not always enough. Not in the long run. Not when children cry, or careers diverge, or illness lingers. In those moments, commitment is not a feeling—it is a decision. A practice. A tether.
Brinig’s work reveals that the law once reinforced that tether. Not just by making divorce harder, but by making marital promises matter.
In fault-based regimes, couples were not only more careful entering marriage—they knew the law would hold them accountable within it. That made a difference. Commitment wasn’t just emotional; it was legal currency. It could be defended. It could be trusted.
But with the rise of no-fault divorce, marriage changed form. It became revocable. One party could dissolve it without mutual agreement. The state no longer asked why. It simply stepped aside.
And those who believed—deeply, patiently—in staying? They were left without recourse.
Especially women.
Women, who so often made the long-term investments of care and sacrifice. Women, who put aside their earning power to raise children, support spouses, build homes. When the marriage ended—by unilateral decision—the law rarely compensated them fully. The commitment they had given was not honored in courtrooms. It had no legal weight.
Brinig does not mourn the loss of punitive systems. She does not long for the return of forced unions. What she does ask, however, is urgent:
What kind of commitment can survive when the law no longer honors it?
If we want people to build together—for decades, for lifetimes—we must offer more than ceremony. We must give them law that believes in the binding power of promises.
That doesn’t mean denying divorce. But it might mean distinguishing between types of exit. It might mean acknowledging fault again—not to punish, but to recognize responsibility.
It might mean drafting prenuptial agreements that reflect each couple’s vision of commitment.
Or building child custody and alimony systems that truly reflect the sacrifices made.
Because freedom without structure is not always liberation. Sometimes, it is abandonment.
And commitment without consequence is not a vow. It is a hope with no hinge.
What does this all mean?
It means we must return to the question law once asked:
What do we owe each other, when we promise forever?
And are we willing, as a society, to back that promise with more than words?
Because love is fragile. But when backed by law, it can become shelter.
And when the law forgets love’s cost, it’s not just marriages that break—it’s the trust that binds us all.