GOOD LUCK WITH EVERYTHING

I told myself I was going to hold it together. And I did.

Which, frankly, deserves a small certificate. Maybe a medal.

At the very least, a complimentary pastry.

Because after spending weeks dreading the moment I would finally see him again, I had already prepared myself for practically every emotional disaster imaginable.

I thought I might cry. I thought my heart might race.

I thought old memories might suddenly ambush me.

I thought I might feel angry. I thought I might feel sad.

I thought maybe I'd feel something. Anything.

Apparently, my brain had been producing a full-budget psychological thriller while reality had prepared a very boring administrative appointment.

He arrived. I looked at him. And… Nothing.

No dramatic soundtrack. No trembling hands. No romantic flashback montage. 

No Oh God, I still love him. Not even a tiny violin in the background.

Just: Oh. You're here. That's it.

After all that anticipation. After all those sleepless nights.

After rehearsing imaginary conversations in my head like I was preparing for the final episode of a very emotionally expensive television series…

Oh. You're here. Honestly, reality needs better writers.

The first conversation was practical. Money. The card. Then the iqama.

I handed it over.

And somewhere in that painfully ordinary exchange, I realized how strange it is to stand in front of someone who was once your husband and suddenly feel like you're two people waiting at some government counter.

Where's the card? Where's the iqama? Anything else?

Please take your belongings and have a nice day.

Thank you for choosing Marriage™. We appreciate your business. 😂

And maybe I expected one tiny thing.

Not love. Not reconciliation. Not an apology.

Not some dramatic “I can't live without you.”

Please. We've all suffered enough.I just expected a little human conversation.

A: “How are you?”

Maybe: “How's life?”

Maybe even: “What have you been doing?”

You know. Small talk. The basic human software that usually comes pre-installed.

Apparently mine had expired. Because there was none of that.

Just practical questions. And silence.

And then he left with: “Good luck with everything.”

And somehow… THAT was the sentence that broke something open.

Not because I wanted him to stay. Not because I wanted him back.

Not because I suddenly remembered that I was madly in love with him.

No.

It hurt because four simple words somehow sounded like the closing credits to years of my life. 

Not five years of marriage. That's not even the story.

There were two years of long-distance relationship before the marriage.

Then we got married religiously on 13 July 2022.

And this July marked almost four years since our religious marriage.

The government officially recognized our marriage in January 2024.

Almost four years of being husband and wife in the way that mattered to us, even if the paperwork came later.

Almost four years of a life that, at least in my mind, was still supposed to mean something.

But maybe that's the cruel part. Those years apparently don't count anymore.

Not in the way I thought they would.

Not in the way I imagined they would matter when we finally stood face-to-face again.

Because today, I wasn't treated like someone with whom he had shared years of life.

I was simply the estranged wife. The wife who exists on paper.

The wife he doesn't seem to want to keep. 

And perhaps that's what hurt more than anything else. Not losing the marriage.

Realizing how easily all those years can be reduced to a relationship status that barely requires a conversation.

Good luck with everything.

What an impressively efficient way to summarize a relationship.

Two years of LDR. A religious marriage on 13 July 2022.

Almost four years of marriage.

And apparently the grand finale is a sentence you'd normally say to someone leaving a job.

Good luck with everything. Thanks.

You too. May your future be prosperous.

Please don't forget to complete our customer satisfaction survey. 😂

I held it together while he was standing in front of me. And I am actually grateful for that.

Because I didn't want him to see me cry and think I was trying to guilt-trip him.

I didn't want my tears to become another conversation I had to explain.

I didn't want him wondering whether I was trying to make him feel bad.

So I stayed composed. I answered. I handed over what he asked for.

I didn't ask for anything. 

I didn't ask: “Don't you want to know how I've been?”

I didn't say: “After everything, that's all you have to say?”

I didn't demand an explanation. I didn't ask for closure.

I didn't ask for tenderness. I didn't ask to be chosen.

I simply stood there. And when he left…

I got into the cab. And then I cried.

Oh, did I cry.

Apparently my emotional system had been waiting for the exact moment the man disappeared before filing its complaint.

“Excellent. He's gone. Release everything.”

And that's when I understood. I wasn't crying because I still loved him.

I was crying because I finally experienced, in real life, what an estranged marriage actually looks like.

Not the romanticized version.

Not the version where two people eventually sit down, talk honestly, cry, apologize, and neatly close the chapter.

No. Sometimes it's a hotel lobby. A bank card. An iqama.

A few practical questions. A polite goodbye.

And then you're left sitting in the back of a cab trying not to drown in your own tears while Google Maps politely tells you that your destination is eight minutes away.

Nothing says emotional closure quite like: “Turn left in 300 meters.” 😂

And maybe that's the cruelest part. I spent weeks afraid of seeing him. 

And when I finally did. I discovered that I wasn't afraid of him anymore.

I was afraid of what seeing him would make me feel. 

And apparently the answer was: 

Very little in the moment, and absolutely everything afterward.

Because sometimes the body waits until you're safe to tell you what the heart couldn't say while you were standing there.

That hurt. That really fucking hurt. Not because I want the marriage back.

Because I wanted those years to mean something more than this.

I wanted the ending to have more humanity.

I wanted two people who once shared a relationship, a marriage, plans, conversations, jokes, disappointments, and years of life to at least look at each other and acknowledge:

“Hey. You made it through.”

But apparently that's asking for premium features. 

Basic subscription only. No small talk included.😂

And here's the savage little truth I'm taking with me:

I don't need to convince anyone that my life mattered.

I don't need someone to ask about my life for my life to be worth asking about.

I don't need someone to be curious about me before I allow myself to be curious about what comes next.

And I certainly don't need to stand in a lobby waiting for emotional crumbs from someone who has already decided to serve me silence.

I've spent enough time starving at that table. I'm not asking for the menu anymore.

I'm leaving.

Because if, for now, all I am to him is an estranged wife he doesn't want to keep, then so be it. 

That is his position. It doesn't have to become my identity.

There is something deeply humiliating about realizing that someone can go from your person to someone who barely asks how you're doing.

But there is also something strangely liberating about finally seeing it without having to make excuses for it.

I don't have to make him care. I don't have to remind him of the years.

I don't have to present an emotional invoice and say:

“Look how much we had. Surely that deserves more than this.”

If someone has to be reminded of the value of the years they shared with you maybe the invoice was never going to be paid.

So… Good luck with everything? Yeah.

Good luck to me, too. Because apparently I have an entire life to rebuild.

And this time… I'm not waiting for anyone to hand me permission to live it.

I'm going downstairs. I'm getting coffee.

I'm getting pastries. I'm meeting my friend.

Because after everything, I refuse to let one painfully cold morning become the entire story of my life.

Maybe this isn't the ending I wanted. Maybe it isn't even closure.

Maybe it's just the ugly, awkward, deeply uncinematic moment when I finally understand:

I can grieve what those years meant to me without begging someone else to give them meaning.

And if the only thing I get from today is a bank card, an iqama, a polite goodbye, and an emotional breakdown in a taxi…

Well. At least the taxi is taking me somewhere.

And that's more than I can say for some chapters of my life.

Coffee first. Rebuilding later. I've got pastries to attend to.

And apparently, an entire future that doesn't require anyone's permission.