The Quiet Years Before Nathan
I was first married back when I still believed that love could last on effort alone. That marriage did not end in a single dramatic moment. It simply unraveled, slowly, year after year, until we both realized we were no longer living with each other so much as beside each other.
When I finally walked away at forty two, I carried a quiet truth with me. Love was not something a person could hold onto just by wanting it badly enough.
The years that followed were not painful so much as small. I met men who seemed promising. Conversations that sparked a flicker of hope. Relationships that almost worked, until they did not.
Without ever choosing it, I stopped expecting much from any of it. I was not bitter. I was not even particularly sad. I had simply built a peaceful life that did not require anyone else to stay.
I had my home. My morning coffee on the porch. My church. My friends. My slow Saturday walks. The kind of routines a woman builds when she has decided that her happiness will be her own responsibility.
By the time I turned sixty, I had quietly stopped imagining that love would ever find its way back to me. And honestly, I was content. There is a deep peace in accepting your life as it is, instead of always longing for what it could be.
