Some Things Are Just Meant To Be

was me and Sarah, seven years ago, standing on the pier at sunset. We were kids, really. I had my arm around h

n us. I believed we could build a beautiful life together. That picture felt like it was from ano

ee her buried in her textbooks. I took on extra shifts to pay off her student loans, telling her it was an investment in our

west moment of my life. The thought wasn't just painful, it was insulti

h a violent tug. I couldn' t stay in our apartment a second long

her absence, but it felt more like home than the pristine, modern apa

oxes from closets, filled trash bags with old newspapers and forgotten junk. I scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees until the old linoleum shin

l sofa in the living room and fell into a deep, dreamless sle

On the fr

ght now! What the hell did you do

wasn' t pleading or ap

lay there on the couch,

ey isn' t working! You can' t j

open it. "It' s not your home anymore, Sarah,"

about? Stop being so dr

filed for divorce this morning. My lawyer will b

as thick with shock. Then, the anger crumbled, replaced by a sou

t mean that. We can talk about this.

nymore. The well of my

. "You had your chance to talk. You had your chance to be my wife.

r voice turning hysterical. "You' re twi

ny. I was the one who was hurt. I was the one grie

e living room. She could scream and cry and bang on the door all night. It di

ang. It wa

"Just wanted to confirm that the papers were served to your

settled over me. It was done. It was real. A new cha