My hands shake and my heart races as I stare at his name on my phone. This is the last call, I tell myself. No more chasing, no more begging, no more explaining.
But why am I so nervous? I haven’t even called him yet.
Maybe it’s because deep down, I know—he won’t try to stop me.
That’s my greatest fear. And as much as I try to deny it, he keeps proving me right. He throws out a rope of hope just close enough for me to touch, but far enough that I can never grab it. And the cycle repeats.
People think I’m a tough one, maybe even heartless.
But no one sees the part of me that’s fragile. The part that craves a kind of love I’ve never known. The part that’s desperate to be understood the way I understand everyone else. The part that longs to be cared for the way I pour myself into others—especially when my own cup is bone dry.
I call him.
“Do you have time to talk?” I ask.
My own husband. He says yes.
He’s calm—but distant.
“Can we grow up?” I plead.
“Can we take responsibility? Can we move past this?”
He sighs: “No. I just can’t live with you anymore.”
There it is—those words. Almost as if he’s disregarding my efforts and making it seem like everything was my fault.
How many times can someone break before they say, enough?
I plead one last time. “I’m done—after this, you will never find us.”
He says, “Go. I cannot live with you; that’s a fact.”
My voice cracks, “Okay.” And I hang up.
A part of me feels numb. I look back at his name on my phone and then—block.
