A smiling woman standing on a beach | Source: Midjourney
I let the salt cling to my skin, I let the sun kiss parts of me that hadn’t felt light in months.
I read three books in four days. I swam at sunrise. I slept with the windows open and let the breeze carry away the last pieces of who I had been in that house.
When I came back, I had a tan, a few extra freckles, and not a single regret.
A smiling woman with freckles | Source: Midjourney
The next morning, my father gave me the divorce papers I’d filed for before I left.
The fallout was swift and oddly satisfying. Aidan’s mother, of all people, was livid. I heard later that she’d cornered him in the kitchen the moment I left.
“She cooked! She cleaned! She threw you a beautiful party and you embarrassed her like that!” my mother imitated my mother-in-law.
Paperwork on a table | Source: Midjourney
I met with a cousin a few days later. She’d been at the party too, and apparently, Aidan had run outside after me that night, frantic and unsure. But he didn’t know which way I’d gone.
“He stood on the sidewalk, Lacey, spinning in place like a child who’d lost his mother in a crowd,” she’d said, giggling.
That felt about right.
Now, looking back, I don’t feel any anger or regret.
A laughing woman sitting on a bench | Source: Midjourney
Just clarity.
I mourn the version of Aidan that I thought existed. The version I loved. But I thank the version of me that chose to walk away before I disappeared inside his shadow completely.
And I’m grateful, so deeply grateful, we never had children. Because raising a child is hard enough. You shouldn’t have to raise your husband, too.
