I found myself scrolling through old photos, messages she’d sent me over the years, detailing daily moments I’d barely looked at, let alone appreciated. She’d sent me paragraphs of excitement and joy, which I’d often brushed off with short responses. I could see now how her texts dwindled over time, how she began turning instead to Chris.
Chris had slipped into her life where I should have been, and I hadn’t even noticed. I took for granted that her affection and devotion were permanent,
that she’d never leave.
But she’s gone now. And Evan, too, off to boarding school so he wouldn’t need to be looked after by strangers. He told me he’d be fine on his own.
The house feels like a shell now. Empty. It’s not even a home without her warmth. In her absence, I’ve clung to alcohol and regret, haunted by memories of her. And every time I think of the chances I missed, I’m gutted. I could have had everything.
Staring at our wedding photo, tears fall down my face. Why didn’t I see this coming? Why didn’t some future version of myself reach back and stop me, warn me not to hurt her, not to drive her away?
If had just one more chance, I would hold her so tight, not even death could part us.
But she’s marrying Chris now. She was my wife only months ago, and now I have to watch her promise herself to someone else.
I told Evan about her wedding, hoping he’d feel some of my hurt. But instead, he smiled. “Mom deserves to be happy. I want her to be happy.” A child could see what I’d been blind to for years.
23:13 Fri, Oct 18
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The house feels like a shell now. Empty. It’s not even a home without her
warmth. In her absence, I’ve clung to alcohol and regret, haunted by
memories of her. And every time I think of the chances I missed, I’m gutted. I
could have had everything.
Staring at our wedding photo, tears fall down my face. Why didn’t I see this coming? Why didn’t some future version of myself reach back and stop me, warn me not to hurt her, not to drive her away?
If I had just one more chance, I would hold her so tight, not even death
could part us.
But she’s marrying Chris now. She was my wife only months ago, and now I have to watch her promise herself to someone else.
I told Evan about her wedding, hoping he’d feel some of my hurt. But instead, he smiled. “Mom deserves to be happy. I want her to be happy.” A child could see what I’d been blind to for years.
So, I went to her wedding. Evan insisted on being a flower boy. The ceremony was lavish; she wore a white dress and looked radiant, and for the first time, I realized what I’d lost.
“Congratulations,” I managed to say.
“Thank you,” she replied with a smile that held nothing but peace.
She’d let go. And I–I had let my happiness slip through my hands forever.
This is my punishment, and I know I will never find peace.
