Marriage counseling had given us the tools. Date nights had provided temporary bandaids. But after fifteen years, the truth was undeniable—my husband didn’t dislike me, he just didn’t particularly see me unless I was in his way.
The breaking point came when I found him telling golf buddies about his “bachelor lifestyle” while I stood there holding his dry cleaning. That night, I packed a bag while he snored.
Fate intervened sixty miles from home when my trusty Corolla choked to a stop outside the Starlight Motel. The owner stepping out with a flashlight was none other than Ben—my first love, the one who’d written me poetry and remembered my sister’s birthday without reminders.
As he fixed my room’s leaky faucet (without being asked!), I marveled at the contrast. Here was a man who noticed when I switched from tea to coffee, who asked follow-up questions about my pottery class. For seventy-two hours, I bathed in the warmth of being truly known.
Then I found the service receipt showing Ben had paid to have my alternator disconnected.
The betrayal stung differently than my husband’s neglect—one man ignored me, the other had orchestrated our reunion like I was some prize to be won.
I drove away with no destination, just determination. Not to find a better man, but to become the woman I’d lost trying to please them. The road ahead was mine alone, and for once, that didn’t scare me—it thrilled me.
