I left.
And it was a mistake.
It’s been clear since the second I walked away.
Hank deserves more than I’ve given him.
I need to move, to cope.
It’s time to paint.
Once I’ve got music screaming from my phone, I open my bag, prop up the easel and position a canvas. Shoulders back, head high, I drag the brush across the canvas. Blood-iron red. Cornflower blue. Mustard yellow. Emotions flood me. No more numbing. No more denial.
Time to do the brave thing. And the brave thing is saying the scary thing. The brave thing is getting up after a fall. The brave thing is admitting to missing someone.
Admitting to still loving them even after all this time.
With emerald and brown paint, I add a craggy mountain range to the canvas. Slash a marigold sun in the bluebird sky. Wildflowers and nettles pepper the tall grass. Life rushes through the landscape, the scrape of the paintbrush like ice cracking over a thawing lake.
When I lay the paintbrush down, I step back and assess my work. It’s not a neat landscape. It’s a mess of gorgeous color, chaotic instead of calm. Misshapen, the elements almost bending against the canvas like they want to escape. But still, in that madness, in my art, I see what’s there. An oasis. A home. A future.
A tear slips down my cheek. I don’t stop it. Won’t wipe it away.
Three years ago, we were both so lost in our own grief that we forgot to make room for anything else. When really, grief is love that has nowhere to go.
Love. All my life, it’s either held me back or propelled me at rocket speed to what I want. There’s no in-between. No indecision. Fear or certainty have always battled it out for the win.
And for the last three years, that’s what I’ve been consumed with. Fear.
Because I lost my baby.
Because I loved Hank and left him anyway.
Because I didn’t trust myself enough to heal.
It’s my biggest regret.Letting my fear that it wouldn’t work again get in the way of the happiness I deserve.
Still can.
Is our love worth the risk for a second time?
Eyes hot, throat tight, I stare at the beautiful Christmas tree. Every ornament Hank and I have ever owned, gifted to each other. Pieces of our life dangle delicately from thin branches.
That’s life. That’s love. Delicate. Tentative. One snap away from breaking. And yet we go on, we live the best we can.
Our hearts bloomed in this cabin, and they never wilted. Not even when we lost our baby or when we signed those papers.
Here, today, I don’t have to solve my problems. Or fix my life. But I can fix what Hank and I have. It’s never been broken. Just on pause. Delayed. Pushed down. But never forgotten.
I’ll be here when you’re ready, Hank’s voice whispers.
Sometimes it’s that simple. That little step forward. The determination to stop flinching when asked the truth. To stay when I want to run. To admit that I love him.
I exhale, a little spark of hope in my stomach. A sharp tug pulling me.
To Hank.
Time to be honest with him. Time to be honest with myself.
