“I ran from a marriage,” she confessed. “Twenty years married to a man who made me believe I was nothing without him. One day, I woke up and realized I had been his shadow for so long, I had forgotten what the light felt like. So I came here. No plan, no money—just pure courage. It was the most terrifying and the most liberating thing I’ve ever done.”
She stared into her cup.
“The first few months were awful. I cried every night. I felt guilty for leaving him. I felt selfish for choosing myself. But over time, the crying became less frequent. And one day, I realized a whole week had passed without me crying. And then a month. And then I couldn’t remember the last time. That’s what happens. The pain doesn’t disappear all at once. It just gets smaller and smaller until one day you realize it doesn’t control your life anymore.”
Her words stayed with me. They gave me hope that what I was feeling was normal—that it was okay to still be broken, that healing wasn’t instantaneous, that freedom had an emotional cost that had to be paid in installments of nightly tears and morning doubts.
On Saturday—my first day off—I decided to explore the city. I took the bus downtown. I walked through streets full of shops and restaurants. I went into a bookstore and stayed there for hours.
I touched books. I read back covers. I bought three that called to me—books about women reinventing themselves, books about starting over, books that spoke directly to me.
I ate lunch alone at a small restaurant. I ordered pasta with tomato sauce. I drank wine.
I allowed myself to enjoy the food without rushing, without having to serve anyone else, without having to clean up afterward.
Just eating.
Just being.
In the central park, there was an artisan market. I walked among the stalls, looking at necklaces, paintings, ceramics.
A woman was selling handmade aromatic candles. I went closer.
“This one is lavender,” she said, pointing to a purple candle. “It’s for peace, to calm the mind.”
I bought three—one for my apartment, one for Ulleia, one for Maria.
Small gifts that were also messages.
Thank you for holding me up when I decided to hold myself up.
I returned to the apartment as the sun began to set. I lit one of the candles. The smell of lavender filled the small space.
I sat on the sofa with one of the books and began to read. It was about a fifty-year-old woman who, after a divorce, decided to travel alone for the first time.
Every page was a mirror. Every paragraph described exactly what I was feeling—that fear mixed with euphoria, that guilt intertwined with relief, that feeling of falling and flying at the same time.
That night, for the first time since I arrived, I turned my phone on completely. I had a message from Ulleia.
Sister, I hope you’re well. You haven’t written much, but I understand you need space. I just want you to know that Michael came looking for me. He wanted me to tell him where you are. I didn’t tell him anything. He got angry. He said ugly things to me. But I stood firm. Your secret is safe with me. Fly peacefully. I love you.
I read the message, feeling my eyes fill with tears.
My sister—my ally—my only real connection to the world I left behind.
I replied.
Ulleia, thank you. You don’t know how much it means to me that you’re covering for me. I’m okay—better than I’ve been in years. The work is good. The place is quiet. I am learning to be me again. It’s weird. It’s hard. But it’s necessary. I love you. I’ll send you something soon.
I also had a message from Maria.
Friend, your house is fine. I’m watering the plants, collecting the mail. Michael came by two more times. The second time he brought Clara. They knocked for ten minutes. They yelled a bit. They left. I haven’t heard from them since. I hope you’re finding what you’re looking for. I miss you, but I’m happy for you.
I replied to both of them with gratitude.
And then, on impulse, I opened a new note on my phone and started to write—not for anyone else, just for me.
A kind of journal.
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