I am done

I’m done torturing myself like this.

This self-inflicted grief—it’s not noble, it’s not healing.

It’s slow poison.

I’ve grieved long enough for someone who didn’t stay.

My body, my soul—they don’t deserve this neglect.

No more lying in bed for days, no more starving myself out of sadness,

no more letting the silence of this house drown me.

Enough.

If he can move on in the blink of an eye— find someone new, build a future, name a child— then so can I.

(And no, I won’t pretend that sentence didn’t ache to write.)

He moved on.

And I’m done hiding in the wreckage.

Next week, I’m coming home.

And I’m filing for divorce.

Let the whispers begin.

Let the neighbors talk.

Let them invent their stories, tie their assumptions like ribbons around a truth they’ll never know.

I know the kind of marriage I dreamed of— and this... this isn’t it. 

This was never it.

So screw the narratives:

“She left because he had a child with someone else.”

“Because she couldn’t give him one.”

“Because he was broke.”

“Because she wasn’t the wife he needed.”

Let them talk.

Let them fill their tiny minds with whatever version makes them feel better.

I’m not here to explain myself.

Not anymore.

Not to anyone.

No more answering to strangers who ask,

“Where is your husband?”

“Why aren’t you two together?”

“Why can’t you just forgive him?”

My peace is not up for debate.

From now on, I’ll live my life— loudly, quietly, joyfully, messily—
with the people who see me, love me, stand beside me.

I won’t sugarcoat my life.

But I won’t hand it to the world on a platter, either.

This is my story.

And I’ll write it how I damn well please.