“It has something to do with his work…” I don’t say anything else.
A beat. Then: “Okay.” No drama. Just:okay.“You don’t have to break his confidence for me. I’m not asking for details. I’m asking whatyouneed.”
I stare at the grout line on the floor.What do I need?
“I need to not feel crazy,” I whisper. “I need to protect the boys. And I need a plan that isn’t just… ‘wait and hope.’”
“Okay. Good. That’s a great start. First, you’re allowed to feel off balance. Seriously. Anyone would be. Second, you love the boys. Beckett loves the boys. No matter what, you’ll make things right for them, and thirdly, ‘Wait and hope’ only has to be what you want it to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you still love him?”
“I don’t know.” But…Of course I do.
“Then don’t end your marriage with a question mark. The thing is, Ashley, this is your marriage—your family. What will it cost you to wait? Give it a defined window—even if just for yourself. You decide the terms; you decide the timeline. And when you’re done, you’ll know. But you’ll know you did everything you could.”
Something in my chest loosens a notch. “So I decide what I can do. I don’t walk away until I decide. Until I’m out of hope.”
“Exactly. Not passive waiting—structured waiting. Your rules.”
I let that settle, and then, something clicks. “Where did you learn this?”
She laughs softly. “Tour guides hear things. People take vacations to find clarity. I just repeat it back when they need it.” Then, lightly: “Hi, I’m perspective. Nice to meet you.”
“Well. Thank you…Miss Perspective,” I say, and my voice steadies. “Really.”
“Are you back on the ship, then?” Tay asks.
“My mom and the bus ladies took the boys back earlier, so Beckett and I are still here. At the resort.”
“Sounds romantic…”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Are you really?”
I laugh—nervous, but not panicked.
Not like before.
We chat a few minutes longer—confirming our plan to meet in the morning—then hang up.
The bathroom’s the same—humid air, humming fan, that faint lemon-lavender scent still clinging to the steam. But me?
I feel different. I take a deep breath and then open Notes and type three lines:
Protect the boys (no heavy talks around them, no unexplained absences).
No right or wrong choice.
I decide.
Control doesn’t flood back all at once, but it’s moving in—like I’m finding the floor under my feet again.
The mirror’s clear now, and so am I—frayed around the edges, but… I’m okay.
I work lotion over my skin, stinging a little from too much sun, but I don’t flinch.
