I was thinking the other day about an argument my ex and I had towards the end of our relationship. You know the kind—where the same fight plays out on repeat, and you could practically mouth each other’s lines before they’re even spoken. I was “throwing his constant infidelity in his face” (his words, not mine), and he got all puffed up and said:
“You know, when I worked at Academy Sports, I had several opportunities to go out with women and didn’t take them.”
Um… congratulations? Do you want a medal for that? Should I have baked him a cake? Because excuse me, but not cheating when you’re in a committed relationship is the absolute bare minimum. That’s not heroic. That’s just called being a decent human being.
Fast forward, and it’s been almost two years since I packed him up and pushed him out. People like to say, “You’ll get over it with time.” Well, here I am, still carrying the weight of all that betrayal. Some days I think I’ll never really get over it. And honestly? I’m okay admitting that. Healing isn’t linear, and sometimes the anger just sticks around like an unwanted houseguest.
I’m angry at him for treating me (and the kids) the way he did. I’m angry at myself for putting up with it as long as I did. And then—just to twist the knife a little deeper—I see examples of what love and responsibility actually look like.
Like last weekend. my son's girlfriend’s dad came over to fix the deck in front of our house. Why? Not because he had to, not because he owed me anything, but simply because he cares about his daughter. And in doing so, he cares about us. That’s what family looks like. That’s what showing up looks like.
Meanwhile, my own husband wouldn’t lift a finger. Not even with me begging. It’s almost laughable now—if it weren’t still so raw.
Lately, I’ve caught myself making mental lists of all the things he did (and didn’t do). At first, I thought about writing them all down. But then I stopped. Why give him that space? Why let him live rent-free in my head any longer? I don’t want him at my table anymore.
Maybe instead, I’ll write books. Not to publish, not to get rich, but just to write for me. To tell stories. To carve out an hour or two each morning and let the words tumble out. Writing could be my way of processing, of reclaiming the parts of myself that he chipped away.
I hope he’s out there living his best life—probably still fighting the temptation to hit on coworkers, because apparently that was his big struggle. That’s his problem now. Not mine.
As for me? I think it’s finally time. Time to do something special with my life. Time to make myself proud for once. Maybe I’ll write. Maybe I’ll travel. Maybe I’ll just sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and remember that I’m free.
Whatever it is, it’ll be mine. And it’ll be enough.
