Page 79 of To Her

"Is it the right choice?" I'd asked, suddenly uncertain. "Letting him go?"

"I can't answer that for you, Geraldine. But I can ask you this: Are you letting him go because you truly believe it's best for him? Or are you pushing him away because you're afraid of what might happen if you let him stay?"

The question had hit me like a physical blow. Was I being selfless, or was this just another form of running? Another way to protect myself from the vulnerability of being loved?

I hadn't had an answer then. I'm not sure I have one now, two weeks later, as I approach the end of my time here. But I do know this: For the first time in my life, I'm not running from my problems. I'm facing them, one painful therapy session at a time.I'm building a relationship with my mother that feels real and honest. I'm ninety days sober and counting.

And maybe that's enough for now. Maybe I don't need to have all the answers yet. Maybe it's okay to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, to keep doing the next right thing, and trust that eventually, the path will become clear.

I still don't think I'll continue with therapy once I leave here. The process of dredging up the past, of examining every painful memory under the harsh light of analysis—it's exhausting, and I'm not convinced it's helping. But I can't deny that I'm different now than I was when I arrived. Stronger, maybe. More honest, definitely. Less afraid of being seen.

As I sit at my desk, watching the sunset paint the gardens in gold and shadow, I think about the letter I sent to Con. I wonder if he's received it yet, if he's read it. I wonder what he thought, what he felt. If he was relieved to be released, or hurt to be pushed away. If he understood what I was trying to say, or if I just caused more pain.

I wonder if I did the right thing.

But that's the thing about recovery, I'm learning. There are no guarantees, no certainties. Just choices, made one day at a time, with the best intentions and the clearest mind you can manage. And the hope that somehow, it will be enough.

For now, that has to be enough.

Chapter 29

Geri

One year later.

My flight back home had come and gone nearly a whole year ago. I stood at the kitchen window of my mother's cottage, watching the spring rain pattern the glass, and marvelled at how much had changed. The woman who had boarded that plane in a state of fragile sobriety, terrified of what lay ahead, seemed like a stranger to me now.

I had done the time, and I had put in the hard work. I had settled into a life in England with my mother, who had been my biggest rock throughout the whole thing. She had held me when I had come close to relapsing, she had blocked the door from my need to go out and find things to numb the pain, and she had held me through the night when I had received a letter back from Con.

The letter had arrived three weeks after I'd left rehab. I'd recognized his handwriting immediately—the slightly messy scrawl that somehow managed to look both careless anddeliberate at the same time. My hands had trembled as I'd opened it, my mother hovering nearby, ready to catch me if I fell.

He hadn't written much, but he had said this:

Thank you for the letter, and you are right, once people know someone's secrets they do look at them differently, but your secrets will always be safe with me. I now see why life was a struggle for you, and I'm proud of the person you became after it, and I'm proud of the person you're finally allowing yourself to become. I understand you need to leave, I understand you need to let me go. I also need to let you go. I need to be able to have love and happiness in my future and again you're right that person right now isn't you. But that doesn't mean that person won't be you, it just means that right now you and I are not meant to be. Please stalk my Facebook, please keep me updated on your own future as I know I will be doing the same.

Thank you for the other letter. If I ever end up standing at the end of an aisle, I will give it to her. She will need to know the path I took to get where I was, she will need to know the path I crossed to become the person I am today, and you are a big part of that. So thank you, Geri. I love you. You will forever hold a place in my heart. But I release you from the promise we made, and I hope you have the future you deserve too.

That had brokenmy heart and put it back together all at the same time. Because he had been right; Con had always been right.

I'd cried for hours after reading it, curled up on my bed with my mother stroking my hair, not trying to fix it or make it better, just being there. It had been the kind of grief that feelslike it might never end, waves of it crashing over me until I was exhausted and hollow.

But then, gradually, something else had emerged from the wreckage—a sense of peace, of rightness. We had both acknowledged the truth: that we loved each other, but that love wasn't enough, not when I was still putting myself back together, not when he deserved someone whole.

The months that followed had been a strange mix of pain and progress. Some days I'd wake up feeling strong, capable, ready to face whatever came my way. Other days, the weight of everything I'd lost—Con, my life back home, my sense of who I was—would press down on me until it was hard to breathe.

On those days, my mother would gently coax me out of bed, make me tea, sit with me in silence or talk about nothing important until the darkness receded. She never pushed, never demanded, just steadily reminded me with her presence that I wasn't alone.

"You're allowed to grieve, love," she'd told me one particularly bad morning, when I'd apologized for being such a mess. "You've lost things that matter. But you haven't lost everything, and you haven't lost yourself. Not anymore."

She'd been right about that. Slowly, painfully, I'd started to rebuild. Not the person I'd been before—she was gone, and maybe that was for the best—but someone new. Someone who could look in the mirror and not flinch away from her own reflection.

I had gotten a job in a local oil and vinegar shop where I had worked, and I even went back to school for adults. I'd dived into literature and studied writing. The job had come first, a small step toward independence. The shop was tucked away on a cobblestone side street in the village near my mother's house, the kind of place that attracted tourists and locals alike with itsrows of gleaming bottles and the rich, complex scents that filled the air.

The owner, a woman named Eleanor with silver-streaked auburn hair and laugh lines around her eyes, had hired me despite my spotty work history and the gaps I couldn't fully explain.

"Everyone deserves a second chance," she'd said simply when I'd thanked her, and I'd wondered if she could somehow see my history written on my face, or if she just believed that about everyone.

The work was straightforward—stocking shelves, helping customers find the perfect olive oil for their salad or the right balsamic for their strawberries, keeping the books balanced. But there was something soothing about it, about the routine and the sensory experience of the shop, the way customers' faces would light up when they found exactly what they were looking for.

---