Serena was never demanding or loud. She didn’t need attention to feel valued. She carried a quiet steadiness that made everything around her feel calmer, and for a long time I believed that peace would last as long as we didn’t disturb it.
We used to talk about kids, about a house with a yard and a dog, about a future sketched in hopeful outlines. But life doesn’t always keep its promises. After two miscarriages in less than two years, something inside her began to slowly withdraw.
I pulled away.
I threw myself into work. I stayed late, hid behind deadlines, scrolled on my phone instead of asking how she was really doing. I told myself I was giving her space, when in reality I was running — from her pain, from my helplessness, from the terrifying truth that love doesn’t always fix what’s falling apart.
When we did argue, it wasn’t fiery. It was drained and weary — the kind of fighting that comes when both people are too tired to fight and too wounded to let go.
One night, after a long, heavy silence stretched between us, I said the words that ended everything.
“Maybe we should get a divorce.”
She didn’t respond right away. She just studied my face, as if searching for hesitation.
“You’ve already made up your mind,” she said quietly, “haven’t you?”
I nodded, believing in that moment that being truthful was the same as being brave.
She didn’t break down or argue. She simply packed a suitcase that same evening, folded her clothes with care, and walked out of our apartment with a quiet grace that still lingers in my memory.
Standing in that hospital hallway two months later, I finally understood how wrong I had been.
She looked frail, her hair cut short in a way she never would have chosen before. Her shoulders curved inward as if she were carrying a weight no one could see.
Continue reading…
