During the days I was in the hospital after my C-section, I forgot that my husband had cheated on me.
Not because I’d forgiven him. I was in too much pain.
The pain of the scalpel cutting open my stomach, the pain of postpartum contractions shaking my whole body, the pain of my grandfather dying before I could see him one last time, so much pain that my brain took it upon itself to erase the location pin I’d seen on my birthday.
I thought I’d forgotten everything.
Over the next two years, he treated me better and better.
When he lost his job, I supported the family. When we fell into debt, we paid it off together. He stood by me when I argued with his parents, and got up in the middle of the night to make formula for the baby, saying, “You’ve worked so hard, honey.”
I thought the hardest days were behind us.
Until the day I looked through his phone again.
My memories came rushing back like floodwaters breaking through a dam.
I looked at his panicked face as he ran over and asked, “What’s wrong?” Then I suddenly smiled.
It wasn’t because I’d forgiven him.
It was because I finally understood
The ending wasn’t him becoming a better man. It was me choosing to leave.
That night, I packed our child’s things and called a car.
Behind me, he shouted, “Is this really necessary?”
I didn’t look back.
