Not because they suddenly liked me.
Because they finally understood.
I had never been the passenger.
I had been the owner.
That evening, I returned home.
Our house was quiet.
Aaron’s things were still everywhere.
His watch on the dresser.
His jacket on the chair.
His photographs on the wall.
Four years of memories.
I walked into our bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time all day, I allowed myself to cry.
Not because I wanted him back.
Because I was mourning the woman I had been.
The woman who had believed love meant enduring humiliation.
The woman who had confused sacrifice with devotion.
The woman who had given everything and asked for almost nothing.
My phone rang.
It was my mother.
“Are you okay?”
