For nearly two decades, I have cherished a wonderful man named Alex. With his dark hair and warm brown eyes, he is undeniably attractive. I’ve only seen him without his beard once, and honestly, I prefer the facial hair—it suits him perfectly.
Alex is easygoing, especially when my anxieties flare up. During social events, he often stays quiet while I chat away. He thrives on late nights but rises early, whistling cheerfully as soon as he gets out of bed. I, on the other hand, need at least thirty minutes of silence before I can interact with anyone in the morning and require a solid eight hours of sleep to function properly. He is truly my counterpart.
Fifteen years ago, we felt fully prepared to marry. After exchanging vows, we quickly started a family, excitedly saying, “Let’s have kids close together,” and we did just that. Now, with three children in tow, we find ourselves mutually recognizing that we would be happier apart.
I care for him deeply, but that love has evolved. It’s no longer strong enough to support a marriage, yet it still exists. We’ve shared the experience of bringing our children into the world, built a life together, navigated loss, and cared for each other during illness. The love we’ve shared has allowed us to forgive past mistakes, and now we are choosing to utilize what love remains to part ways amicably.
Despite our efforts to strengthen our bond as a couple, we seemed to drift further apart. We realized it was time to make a change. Two months ago, he moved out, and after a few weeks of solitude, I took a much-needed girls’ weekend getaway with my best friend. We indulged in massages, explored various shops, and lingered in the car, reluctant to end our conversations.
While browsing in a bookstore, I received a text from Alex—a picture of our kitchen. He had taken down the cabinets and tiled up to the ceiling, just as I had envisioned for years. Inspired by his move, I had already reached out to contractors to start the project, but while I was away, he surprised me with his progress. Finding a quiet corner in the store, I sat for a moment, tears in my eyes—not from sadness, but from happiness at the love still present between us during this transition.
I care for Alex, and a part of me always will, yet our marriage is no more. Most days, I feel strong and confident that we are making the right decision. However, there are moments when the reality stings, like when the grocery store clerk, who has bagged my groceries for years, remarks on how my purchases have decreased. Or when I visit the jewelry store, and the saleswoman notices I left my rings at home.
But, reflecting on Alex as an incredible father reassures me that our separation doesn’t equate to a tragic ending. He will always prioritize our children, and at the end of the day, we remain a family.
The sting lessens, and I find solace in not needing to buy steak or feeling emotional when I glance at jewelry. I love him for who he is—a good person who listens and cares, especially during the challenges of being a single mother in my 40s. He will always be a part of my life. Our family may look different now, but that doesn’t diminish the love we share. Although it was insufficient to sustain our marriage, it is enough to foster a fulfilling family life.
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