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So, I gave up.
Maybe that made me a quitter. Maybe people would look at me and say I didn’t try hard enough. I’d look them in the eye and tell them that I couldn’t be the only one who did. A marriage needed two people working together to make it successful. A divorce only needed one.
I did what I had to do for myself, and I didn’t regret it.
Of course, there was one small part of me that hated what separating from Tom meant. I had to admit that the dream I’d had for myself wouldn’t come true—at least, not anytime soon.
Then again, it might not happen at all.
I wanted a family.
I’d always wanted a family.
From the moment my grandmother died a month after I’d turned eighteen, I had been searching for one.
She was all I’d had in life, all that I’d ever known about having a real family, and when I lost her, it set me on path to finding a way to get back some of what I’d lost.
I craved a sense of belonging. I wanted people around me who loved me. I wanted to find a man to fall in love and grow old with. I wanted babies. Lots of them. I longed for a big family.
When I met Tom, I thought I’d found part of that.
And it was truly devastating to know that one of the things I’d loved the most about Tom was the very thing that was tore us apart.
In the beginning of our relationship, I found it endearing that he spoke about his family the way that he did. I loved knowing that he was close with them, that they all got along, and that despite their physical distance, they all managed to communicate regularly with one another.
Given the lack of proximity, I didn’t see them very often, and the first few times I’d been around them, they’d been nice enough.
It wasn’t until Tom had proposed that things changed. At first, I thought it was just a fluke. But when things never improved—hell, they’d gotten a whole lot worse—it started to hit me that maybe I was making a mistake.
So, it really shouldn’t have been a shock to him that I filed for divorce.
He tried to fix it. He wanted me to reconsider. He promised he’d make more of an effort.
For me, it was too little, too late.
There was too much hurt. Too much betrayal.
I shouldn’t have been able to get to the place that I did in our marriage. It wasn’t for lack of speaking to him about it, either. He knew, ignored it, and only wanted to try when I had finally had enough.
It was hard, but I had to do what was best for me.
I might have wanted a family, but I wasn’t so desperate for one that I was going to stay where I was being mistreated.
I’d find a way to make myself happy.
Too much disappointment in my life had led me to this place. And for now, I was content with my decision.
Well, except for one small thing.
I wasn’t quite sure if I’d ever get used to the fact that I wasn’t able to see my best friend whenever I wanted to see her. Based on the words she’d just said to me over the phone, I knew the feeling was mutual.
“I miss you, too.”
My move to Cottonwood had only one downside. It was nearly three hours north of where I lived close to Waverly in the town I’d shared a home with my ex-husband.
“How are things going up there?” Waverly asked.
“They’re good,” I replied.
