Untethered

Just days earlier I’d penned “if home is a person, where do you go when they are gone?” Now I stood in the opening of my unit, assessing the boxes and swallowing the fact that I never had a home.

My image of Steve shattered at the discovery of the affair—the memories I once cherished evaporated. I let the addition of his toy collection and the uncovering of his sexual proclivities wash over me without much reaction. I was numb to my core. I’d given over a decade of my life to a person I did not know. My entire perception of reality disintegrated. Everything that once grounded me, gone. I could not comprehend his ability to look me dead in the eyes day after day and lie to me. Rage burned in the bottom of my heart, a sourness curdling my insides. But the anger was quickly snuffed out by an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. I was struck by the realization that he could have trapped me this way for decades more—keeping me tethered to a vague life plan he never intended to execute. His behavior was serial, and had his death not been premature, I could have, I would have, followed him anywhere—stuck in the grips of his shadow until my own demise. He deserved nothing from me—not even feelings of malice. Giving him any more of my energy was more than he deserved.

I left his collection in a heap on the bathroom floor. Remnants of my past life were strewn about the cabin, but I felt confident I possessed everything I needed for my next phase of life. I locked the door, left my key on the porch, and slipped away, never to return again. The mess was Don’s problem now.