I planned a romantic getaway for the two of us—a mountain resort, spa, everything included. I packed with a smile, heart full of hope. But the next morning, as I grabbed my suitcase, he looked at me and said, “You…
were coming?” That’s when the truth hit like ice water.
I sat on the edge of the couch, my legs tucked under me, phone in hand, scrolling without much thought. My thumb moved fast, but my eyes were slower.
One picture stopped me cold—my old college friend Mandy, holding a pink cocktail by a bright blue sea in Florida.
Her toes were buried in the sand, and she was laughing like her life was made of sunshine.
Next was Kate, hiking up some foggy mountain trail with her husband.
They had backpacks, walking sticks, and those bright red cheeks people get from fresh air and joy. The caption read, “Disconnect to reconnect.” It stung a little.
Then there was Amy, wrapped in layers at a ski lodge, her kids beaming in matching coats like they were in a catalog.
She stood behind them, coffee in hand, her husband’s arm around her shoulder.
I blinked and pulled up my own profile. A picture by the flower bed—just me, squinting in the sun.
One in the kitchen holding a tray of burnt cookies.
And another on this same couch, in this same spot, doing nothing at all.
Forty. I was forty, and the biggest trip I’d taken this year was to the outlet mall for jeans marked 60% off.
“Hey, Mark?” I said, turning slightly. He sat in his usual dent on the couch, wearing that old shirt with the faded logo, one hand deep in a chip bag, the other holding the remote like it was glued there.
“Huh?” he grunted, not looking away from the screen.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to go somewhere next week?
Just the two of us?”
“Why?” he asked, eyes still locked on the game.
“To spend time together. We hardly even talk anymore. Everything’s about bills or what’s for dinner.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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