Page 47 of Letting Go

“I just-” He groans. “I felt seen. She made me feel-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” I cut in, my voice shaking. “Don’t you dare try to justify it by saying she made you feel special. I was your wife. You were supposed to feel that with me.”

“Please,” he pleads, “I’ll do anything. Therapy. You want me to promise never to see her again? I swear I won’t.”

He’s scrambling now. Desperate.

I shake my head, the weight of it pressing into my chest, heavy and sharp.

“How does that even work? You realize she’smysister, right? I’ll see her again. Assuming there’s even anything left to salvage between us. And therapy? Will that erase the image of you on top of her inourbed?”

I stop. I won’t cry. Not in front of him.

When I turn around, he’s still standing there, hollow and helpless.

“I gave you everything,” I whisper. “And when you couldn’t handle your own shame, you destroyed me just to feel taller.”

“I never wanted to lose you,” he says.

“You lost me the moment you unzipped your pants.”

Silence. Dense. Final.

I walk to the door and pull it open, gripping the edge like I need the frame to keep me upright. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack open my ribs.

He’s about to speak again. I can see it, another apology forming. Or the next excuse. Or some tragic little monologue about how broken he is and how we were meant to be forever.

But I’m done.

“If I ever meant anything to you,” I say, steady and low, “if even one second of the last ten years was real, then you’ll sign the papers.”

His mouth opens. “I won’t. I’ll fight for you, for us.”

And I see it, just for a flicker, on his face. That loss. That ache. That moment of realization that this… is it.

“You’ll sign them,” I repeat, quieter now. “And you’ll let me go. Clean. No more games. No more begging to talk. No more showing up here.”

I step back, holding the door wide.

“That’s what love looks like now. If there’s any left, that’s how you show it. By letting me be free of you.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, maybe thinking if he waits long enough, I’ll crack. ThatI’ll take it all back and ask him to stay. But I don’t. I won’t.

Eventually, he nods.

Not big. Not dramatic. Just enough.

Then he walks out.

And this time, I don’t cry. I don’t collapse. I don’t break.

I just stand there, watching the man I used to love disappear down the driveway, fading into something smaller.

Because this is what real endings look like.

They don’t always slam.

Sometimes, they just close.

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