As I turned away, a single tear slipped down my cheek without warning.
About two months ago, I discovered that Oliver had someone else. Since then, the word “divorce” has sat at the edge of my lips, yet I’ve never been able to say it out loud. I thought I could become numb to the ebb and flow of love after so many shared moments, so many separations and returns.
But I overestimated my strength and underestimated the trust I’d built in Oliver over ten years. Now, the remnants of that love feel like sharp thorns, digging deeper with every memory. I still remember that day when the car lost control—Oliver, lying twisted before me, half his body soaked in blood, yet still reaching out, trying to shield my eyes.
“Lisa, don’t be afraid. I’m here.”
Maybe God doesn’t want us to separate, I thought. Childhood sweethearts—how easily people romanticize it. But sometimes happiness only exists when you’re blissfully unaware of the truth.
I opened the car window, letting the sharp autumn wind bite at my face. It stung, but not as much as the betrayal I now carry. Two months ago, I asked Oliver to go driving with me—just the two of us. For the first time, he refused.