I know that news will break you the same way it broke me, sitting alone on our bathroom floor in the middle of the night, watching my body fail at the one thing it was made to do.
You’ll say it’s not my fault, and maybe you’re right. But right now, I can’t stop blaming myself.
My stomach twists as bile threatens to rise. The fact that she had to endure all that . . . God, Nisha . . .
No, baby, it’s absolutely not your fault.
I know you’ll blame yourself, too—for not being here, for missing my calls, and for somehow not knowing that I needed you. But this is not about blame anymore. It’s about two people who want the best for each other but can’t seem to give the other what they need.
She’s wrong. It is about blame, and all of it lies with me.
I lost our baby alone. I drove myself to the hospital alone. I answered the doctor’s questions alone. I came back to our empty bed and grieved alone.
And in all that aloneness, I realized I’ve felt that way for a long time. Not just these past weeks, but for months . . . maybe even years.
I realized that this is the future I signed up for, with or without kids. Because it’s clear what comes first for you, and, unfortunately, it’s not me. Not us.
The letter trembles in my grip, each “alone” like a blade tearing at my skin. She’s right about all of it, except for one thing. She’s never been second place to anything—not my career and not my aspirations. I just never proved it when it mattered.
I feel guilty even as I write this. I know why you left. The opportunities you’re getting are theones you’ve always dreamed of, and you absolutely deserve them. But somewhere along the way, your dreams became our dreams, and mine got forgotten in the midst of goodbyes and hellos.
I never asked you to choose between me and your career. I never wanted to be that kind of wife—the kind who begs and pleads, clings and cries, only for you to resent me one day.
I could never fucking resent her. Never. She should have asked. She should have made me see.
A voice inside my head reminds me that she tried, with every frown when I had to leave soon after I came home and every protest when I had to miss another anniversary or Christmas.
But I can’t be this kind of wife, either—the one who quietly accepts the loneliness every time it’s handed to her. The one who loses herself, little by little, until there’s nothing left.
So, here’s another truth: I love you, but love isn’t closing the distance that’s growing between us.
I’m leaving. Not to punish you or to make you come after me, but to find myself again. You might think I’m being cruel, but staying until my love turns bitter, until every plea turns into a fight would be crueler.
The air feels thin. No, not thin . . . more like noxious gas.
I know you think we can work this out, and maybe one day we can. But right now, I need time to grieve, space to heal, and distance to remember who I am when I’m not Patton Pierce’s wife.
I can’t stop you from calling or trying to find me, but I’m not ready.. I don’t know if or when I’ll be.
But here’s my last truth, the one I have to believe: if we’re meant to find our way back to each other, we will.
Love,
Nisha
I wipe the tear that rolls down my cheek, slumping against the cabinet as if I’ve been stabbed by a thousand daggers. The letter falls from my hand like it suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
So, that’s it?
She’s gone?
Our baby is gone?
My world, as I know it, is gone?
It’s a sucker-punch stronger than anything I’ve felt before. Even stronger than the confused heartbreak I felt as a six-year-old boy, seeing my mother get arrested and taken away right in front of me. My world collapsed then, but it’s completely shattered now.
She left me . . . just like my mother did.
