Page 14 of The Ballad of Us
As she rings up my items, I notice a mason jar full of cash, intended for a local shelter that specializes in vocational, drug, and rehabilitation programs. I slip a fifty-dollar bill inside and take a brochure from a stack lying beside the glass jar – a guide with local resources for those struggling with addiction and the loved ones who support them. Realizing I may need support after living with my mom and Gray’s addictions, I slide the pamphlet into my purse and pay for my groceries.
Back at the cabin, I settle onto the front porch with the literature, offering resources from Al-Anon meetings to free counseling programs for those without healthcare. Turning over to the back paper, there are a few helpful reminders from Alcoholics Anonymous Principles, but below it are the "Three C's" of Al-Anon (I didn't Cause it, I can't Cure it, and I can't Control it) I spent years trying to control Gray’s choices, but I didn’t cause his pain, and I sure can’t do the work for him. Feeling like a godsend I might need later for strength, I tuck the brochure into my purse.
Next, I grab the romance novel I picked up in town yesterday at Ink & Embers Bookstore. The porch swing creaks gently as I shift to curl up with my legs tucked under me, the book propped against my knees. The view is breathtaking with rolling mountains that stretch to the horizon in every shade of green and blue, and clouds casting moving shadows across the valleys below.
The book is exactly what I need. It’s light, funny, and full of people who find their happy endings despite seemingly impossible odds. I lose myself in someone else's love story, and in problems that can be solved with witty banter and perfectly timed confessions. Hours pass without me noticing. The sun moves across the sky, painting the mountains in different hues of light, and for a few precious hours, I exist only in this moment, in this story, and in this small pocket of peace I've carved out for myself.
When my stomach finally reminds me it's dinnertime, I reluctantly close the book and head inside. I assemble what I generously call a charcuterie board, featuring crackers, cheese, grapes, and a few slices of the expensive salami I splurged on yesterday. It’s nothing fancy, but exactly what I need.
I eat on the porch as the sun begins its descent behind the mountains, the sky changing into watercolors of pink and gold. The silence isn't oppressive here the way it was in our house after Gray would pass out. This silence is clean, full of possibility, rather than disappointment.
After washing my single plate and putting it away, I retrieve the cupcake from the refrigerator. It looks even smaller out of its plastic container, sitting alone on the kitchen counter like a metaphor for my entire life right now. I carefully peel away the clear wrap.
The single candle stands straight in the center of the pink frosting, waiting. I remember seeing matches in one of the kitchen drawers on my first day here, and I find them exactly where I thought they'd be. The match strikes on the third try, the flame bright in the growing darkness of the cabin.
I light the candle and immediately feel ridiculous. Here I am, a grown woman, about to make a wish on a gas station cupcake in a rented cabin where I'm hiding from my life. The absurdity of it hits me all at once, and I laugh for the first time in weeks.
But as the small flame dances in front of me, casting moving shadows on the kitchen wall, the laughter fades into a more complicated emotion. Because, despite the pain, anger, and the absolute certainty that I made the right choice, I want to make a wish.
The memories slam into me.
At twenty-seven, Gray surprised me with a weekend in New York, Broadway shows, expensive dinners, and a hotel room overlooking Central Park. The way he watched my face instead of the stage during "Hamilton," like my joy was more entertaining than a Tony Award-winning musical. He gave me a delicate silver necklace. "Because you're the music in my life, sweet Rhea," he'd whispered against my ear as he fastened the clasp.
At twenty-eight, the surprise party he threw at our house was perfect because he'd been paying attention for months. Gray had my favorite flowers, wine, and people. He pulled me aside halfway through the evening, drunk on happiness, to tell me he'd never seen me look so beautiful. The cake he had specially made was a three-layer chocolate mix with a salted caramel filling, because I'd mentioned liking it once in passing. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes," he'd said, and I'd believed him completely.
Those birthdays felt like proof that I was the most important thing in his world. Every gift, every surprise, and every moment of his undivided attention felt like validation that I was worth the effort, love, and worth choosing every day.
Now I understand that those celebrations weren't just about me. They were about him, too. It was a way to prove to himself that he could be the man he wanted to be and the partner I deserved. They were beautiful, extravagant attempts to balance the scales, to make up for all the times the bottle won.
The tears come without warning, hot and fast down my cheeks. I try to stop them, try to summon the strength that got me here and helped me pack my bags to walk away from everything I'd built with him. But the grief is bigger than my strength tonight, and bigger than the mountain peace I've been hiding in.
I miss him. God, I miss him so much it feels like dying. I miss his terrible jokes, his perfect voice, and the way he'd dance with me in the kitchen while dinner cooked. I miss how safe I felt in his arms when he was sober, and how he'd trace patterns on my back until I fell asleep. I miss being the person he turned to when the nightmares came, being needed, wanted, and essential to his happiness.
But more than missing him, I'm mourning the version of us that could have been, and the couple we were in those brief, shining moments when sobriety stuck and love felt like enough. The future we planned during his good stretches gnaws at my heart. Marriage, maybe children, and growing old together were in the cards, and now, all of it’s gone.
Before the tears can turn into the ugly sob, building in my chest, I close my eyes and make my wish. It’s not for myself. I've learned that wishing for another person to change is just another form of heartbreak. Instead, I wish for Gray to find peace with the demons that haunt him. I wish for him to forgive the seven-year-old boy who couldn't save his mother. I wish for him to learn to love himself enough to choose life, choose healing, and choose anything other than the bottom of a bottle.
I blow out the candle, and the sudden darkness feels complete.
I don't bother turning on the lights as I make my way to the bedroom. I brush my teeth by the glow of my phone, change into the oversized t-shirt I've been sleeping in, which is one of my own, not one of his that I was tempted to steal. Then I crawl under the covers.
That's when I let myself break.
I cry for the woman I was with him, the one who believed love could conquer anything. I cry for the home we pieced together, now empty and echoing with ghosts. I cry for his pain, for the trauma that shaped him into someone who couldn't choose me over his addiction. I cry for the children we'll never have, for the anniversaries we'll never celebrate, and for all the ordinary moments that make up a life together.
Most of all, I cry because leaving was the right thing to do, but sometimes doing the right thing feels like punishment.
The mountains keep their vigils outside my window, ancient and patient and unmoved by human heartbreak. In their shadow, I grieve what was and what could have been, until exhaustion finally claims me and pulls me under into dreamless sleep.
Tomorrow I'll wake up and choose to keep going, keep healing, keep building whatever comes next. But tonight, on my twenty-ninth birthday, I let myself mourn the love that wasn't enough to save us both.
Four
GRAY
Rehabilitation. The word tastes like metal in my mouth, cold and unfamiliar.
It's where addicts go to die.
