Page 156 of A Love That Broke Us
But I don’t. My mind won’t shut off. And one thought keeps playing, over and over: no one should ever have to witness what I just did. No one should have to go through this.
What happened tonight—in our home—is not normal.
Tossing and turning, I finally give up.
I slip out of bed, walk into our closet, and turn the light on. My hands move quickly, pulling open a drawer with keepsakes.
After digging through a few items, I find what I’m looking for—an envelope—the letter I wrote to myself at Leo and Vivian’s four months ago.
My breath catches as I stare down at it. I know what’s inside. I know what it says.
And I promised myself I’d only open it if I ever found myself here again.
I slide down the wall, envelope in hand, and trace my thumb over the date:
April 14th.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. I told myself if Jensen got clean, I’d wait. I’d give it time. But if he relapsed—I’d read it.
Otherwise, the plan was to wait until December 31. To give it everything I have. To givehimeverything I have.
I have.
God, I have.
I’ve given him everything. And then some.
With trembling hands, I slide my thumb under the edge of the envelope, breaking the seal, and pull out the letter.
Dear Alley,
I’m writing this letter the way I’d write it to Scarlett, or Megan, or Amber. Even Mom. The women I’d fight like hell to protect. The ones I’d want to be strong, and more than anything, happy.
I know you love Jensen. I know it. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And I know he loves you, too.
You two have something special. Something not very many people are lucky enough to find.
But Jensen’s sick.
And it’s not something that can be cured witha pill, or a doctor, or even love. It’s not something that patience or kindness or time can fix.
It’s something only Jensen can do. And he has to do it for himself.
Not for you. Not for Matt. Not for his mom. Not because he’s scared to lose you. He has to do it because he wants to get better.
For him. And him alone.
For so long, I’ve watched as you've stayed by his side, hoping, wishing, even praying for him to get better. To get the help he needs. But you can’t do this forever. You deserve more. You deserve better. You deserve a life with someone who can show up for you. To celebrate life with you. To laugh with you. Grow with you. Build a life together.
You know this is a lifelong illness, even if he gets clean. It’s still a battle, a cancer sitting in the corner, waiting patiently for the right time to pounce. To take over again.
You've seen it with Dad.
And even though you know it's possible for Jensen to get clean and stay clean, you also know this fight does not go away.
It’s not yours to fight anymore.
You’ve done enough. You’ve done all you can.
