“I told you,
that man was good for nothing,” my father continued, his voice dripping with 1–told–you–so smugness, each word a fresh needle jabbing into my already–fraved nerves.
“If you would’ve accepted one of the men I chose-” he began, but I cut him off, unable to bear the thought of revisiting those stifling, arranged–marriage conversations. His words were like a rusty gate scraping against my brain, exacerbating the throbbing migraine that had been building all morning. I felt my temples pulse with pain as I interrupted him, my patience worn thinner than the fragile threads of a spider’s web.
“Don’t even get started on that,” I warned, my voice rising in a mix of frustration and desperation, as if warding off a swarm of painful memories. “I know your choices all too well,” I added, the nauseous taste of those forced introchictions and awkward meetings still lingering on my tongue.
“And no matter who I would’ve ended up with, I can’t forgive cheating,” I exclaimed, the words bursting forth like a damn breaking, releasing the waves of frustrations I’d been trying to contain with him. The mere thought of it made my skin crawl, like ants marching up my spine, leaving a trail of disgust.
“Your mom forgave me!” he growls, his voice like a crack of thunder, shaking the air and making me flinch. The words hung there, a raw and painful reminder of his infidelity, and the forgiveness he’d received but clearly didn’t deserve.
I felt a sting in my eyes as tears pricked at the corners, and my heart twisted with sadness coated by anger. The comparison was humiliating, implying that I should follow my mother’s example and excuse his infidelity, just as she had. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t make the exact mistake she made.
“And that was her biggest mistake,” I shouted back, my voice low but dripping all the resentment stored inside me under the influence of respect for him all these youITS.
The words felt like a snarl, tearing from my throat as I bared my teeth in a fierce, protective instinct. My heart seethed with grief, the memory of my mother’s tolerance and sacrifice electrified my pain further.
I could feel my eyes blazing with a raging intensity, as if daring him to deny it, to try and justify the unforgivable. The air seemed to vibrate with tension, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths and unresolved resentments.
The silence that followed was a welcome reprieve from the toxic conversation, but it was short–lived as I ended the call. My phone buzzed incessantly beside me, a constant reminder of the chaos that had erupted. Texts and comments poured in, each one a tiny pinprick of anxiety, as friends, family members and followers tried to make sense of the dramatic turn of events.
My father’s name flashed on the screen, his calls coming in rapid succession, each one a fresh attempt to pierce the armor of my resolve. I ignored them. all, my gaze drifting back to the horizon, where the blazing sun and sky seemed to stretch on forever, a vast expanse of oblivion that I longed to disappear into. My head still cradled in my hands, I sat there, frozen in time, as the world around me continued to spin out of control,
The irony was choking. My wedding day, once a promise of forever, had transformed into a eulogy for a relationship that never was. The words of condolence and blessings, meant to comfort, only felt like a dirge, a reminder of what could never be
I stood amidst the wreckage, gazing upon the lifeless body of my supposed marriage, my mind reeling in disbelief. Keith’s infidelity had murdered our future, leaving me to confront the corpse of our relationship. The pity and sympathy from others only served as a rotten platter of the failure, a funeral procession of murdered dreams and broken vows. I felt like a mourner, lost and alone, struggling to come to terms with the demise of something that never took place.
I allowed myself to wallow in the darkness of my loneliness, embracing the emptiness that had become my reality. For a moment, I let the weight of my heartache crush me, surrendering to the pressure that was intolerable.
But as the minutes ticked by, I knew I couldn’t stay there forever. I had to find the strength to rise up, to face the world again, no matter how cruel and unforgiving it seemed. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the journey ahead, and slowly began to pull myself up from the depths of my despair. I refused to let time mock me, slipping away with no regard for my pain. I would face it head–on, one moment at a time, and find a way to heal, to mend, and to rediscover myself in this new, shattered world.
As the door creaked open, I hastily wiped away the tears, trying to compose myself, but Leona’s gentle gaze told me there was no need to hide. She carried a breakfast tray, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries. Setting the tray aside, she sat down beside me, her eyes filled with a deep understanding, a sense of solidarity that only comes from shared experience.
I felt a sense of gratitude towards her, knowing she had walked this same painful path, her husband’s infidelity leaving scars that still lingered. In her presence, I felt less alone, less pitied, and more understood. She didn’t offer words of wisdom or shallow condolences instead, she simply sat with me, her quiet empathy a reminder that I wasn’t the only woman who has gone through this
“Are you sure you’re going to stay here in San Francisco, you can to protect me from the pain that seemed to be suffocating me.
always stay with us in Boston.” She suggested with concern, with a deep–seated desire
