“Nothing—when I was drowning in housework and work stress. Nothing—when I was sick in bed and grieving my father. Nothing—when I begged for your comfort during menopause, and when your mother tore me down. You were always there, physically, but emotionally… you were nowhere.”
His voice cracked. “You never told me.”
“I did,” I whispered. “Every time I asked for your help. Every time I begged for romance, for connection. Five years ago, I even asked for therapy. You said there was nothing to fix.”
Only now, as I stood firm in my decision, did he offer therapy. But it was too late.
The next day, I moved into a cozy apartment in Venice Beach. I sold my car, bought a bike, and started over. I redecorated. Changed my hair. Found pieces of myself I didn’t even know were missing.
My transformation shocked our kids—especially our eldest, Amy. She told me Zack was in therapy now, battling depression. I felt a twinge of guilt. But I also felt free.
I started dancing. Made new friends. Laughed like I hadn’t in years. And then I met Sam—a gentle, thoughtful man who makes me feel seen. Loved. Wanted.
We’re getting married this summer.
I’m nervous, yes—but also full of hope. For the first time in decades, I feel alive.
Zack, I hear, is dating a much younger woman now. One who runs his life and spends his money freely. Maybe that’s what he needs—or maybe it’s karma. Either way, I’ve stopped wondering.
Because here’s what I’ve learned:
Sometimes, it’s not the betrayal that breaks a marriage.
It’s the silence.
The inaction.
The absence where love should have been.
And by the time you realize what’s missing, the person who needed you may already be gone.