Perfectly Forever: The Start of The End

This Morning.

I tried to hold it all in with every fiber in my bones. The anger. The tears. The words. My whole body trembled in utter shock. Time stands still, and I stood foolishly and lifeless, caught in a gush of wind.

Do my eyes deceive me? Does my mind choose today of all days to play a trick? After all these years, have I finally lost it? As my surroundings blurred into significance, a searing heat coursed through my veins, boiling my blood as my thoughts surged from the world around me to the whirlwind in my brain.

Life was officially fake.

***

Everything unraveled before my eyes, each moment morphing into a surreal facade. It was as if I were an actor in a sitcom, reciting lines of false joy for an audience on Friday at 8/7 Central. Or perhaps I was nothing more than a discarded toy, manipulated by the whims of a child who fantasized about the perfect life. If only life were as malleable as a script, as controllable as a child’s plaything. But alas, we were mere spectators in our existence, unable to dictate its unpredictable twists and turns. We get dragged along the scenic route until we reach one of two destinations: a final resting place six feet beneath the surface, or scattered into particles like cinnamon dust on a whole wheat toast.

“Run!” Why had I not foreseen this? “Run!” My heart thumps louder. “Run!” I’m trapped. “Run. Dammit!” Every fiber of my being yearned to flee, yet I remained paralyzed with tears, rage, and denial etching themselves onto my face like scars. I stood there, a mere spectator on the outside looking in, while they were engulfed in their lovely bubble. Envy gnawed at my insides as I watched, unseen and unnoticed, like a passive observer scrolling through an Instagram feed.

Was I the outsider, while she, perhaps, was the wife? I had envisioned a future with him, growing old together, watching our children blossom into adulthood, and exploring all the seven wonders of the world side by side. How was it all crumbling before my eyes? How was it that I now felt like the other woman, an interloper in my own life?

I could no longer bear the sight. I no longer felt anchored to the hardwood beneath my feet. Without a word, I fled, out the door, past the elevator, and down the stairs, swept away by the currents of my emotions like a leaf caught in the wind.

Once I started running, I didn’t want to stop.

I wanted to run until I could breathe normally again until the soles of my shoes came apart. I wanted to run back in time and slap sense into myself, to erase the blind date set up by HER. But amid the chaos, my kids weren’t a mistake, they were my future. If only, I could skip past these scenes.

***

In the van, all restraint vanished. I screamed, cried, cursed, and even a bit of vomit escaped my body. Sitting there in the black minivan, which on good days smelled of flowers but on this particular day reeked like a skunk, I was on the verge of starting the engine when my gaze drifted to a figure attempting to maneuver an intimidating GMC truck into a tight space between an SUV and a wall, inching closer to the elevator. The repeated flashing of brake lights signaled their struggle to find a suitable parking spot.

As frustration mounted within me, the elevator doors parted, revealing HIM stepping out with HER clinging to his arm. My initial impulse was to confront them, to unleash my frustration upon them. But then, a more drastic thought flitted across my mind, one so shocking that even my brain recoiled at its audacity. Yet, as quickly as the idea arose, it dissipated. I was seeping with anger, but I wasn’t capable of murder.

Resting my head on the steering wheel, I watched them pass by, my heart heavy with conflicting emotions. Despite everything I witnessed, I couldn’t deny that I still loved him. I didn’t want to admit it, not even to myself. I wanted to hold onto my anger, to remain resentful. I wasn’t ready to forgive and forget. On another note, I would never be ready to forget.

Glancing into the side mirror, I caught a fleeting glimpse of them sharing a kiss, her either whispering sweet nothings or perhaps even biting his ear playfully as I did. Then, he gracefully slid into the driver’s seat of his convertible, the same one we had nearly gone broke over a year ago because of his insistence that he deserved to treat himself “just this once”. She stepped back waving and smiling, until he rolled down the window and uttered those three words, “I love you.” She returned the sentiment with a smile, “I love you, too!”

The weight of those words hit me like a ton of bricks. “I love you.” How long had this been going on? How many times had he said those words to her? My phone buzzed and I knew it was him.

She disappeared into the elevator, leaving me with a swirl of bitter thoughts. I wanted to answer his call to confront him with snarky remarks like, “Did you have fun?” Or “Was it good for you?” But bitterness was creeping in, and I couldn’t bring myself to respond. A notification flashed on the screen of my phone, signaling that he had left a voicemail. I hesitated, considering deleting it without listening, but curiosity got the better of me.

As I listened to his message, a wave of disbelief washed over me. “Hey, just wanted to let you know that it’s going to be a late one tonight. The team and I are trying to get this investment in order. You know, business as usual,” he lied effortlessly, each word slicing through me like a knife. “I will try to be home as soon as possible, but you know how these things are. I’ll grab something to eat here or have Stef go out. Either way, I’m sorted. Okay. Love you.” I deleted the voicemail, feeling hollow and betrayed. Starting the engine, I drove away, leaving behind the echoes of his lies and the shattered remnants of what I once believed was love.

***

Later That Day

This morning, this yard, and that house represented something more. Pulling into the driveway, the only something more I encountered, were leaves. Just yesterday, HE had blown some into a pile but left the pile to pick itself up. The noise stopped and the leaves dropped, He had rushed past us, his expression odd, claiming some urgent work matter required his attention. I hadn’t questioned it then; there was no reason to be suspicious. I simply nodded, urging him to take care of whatever it was while I continued tending to our little wildlife sprouting before our eyes with our three rugrats picking and smelling the flowers as I clipped.

But now, as I surveyed the driveway covered with leaves, mixed with blades of grass and the children’s forgotten toys, doubts began to nag at me. Was it just a work emergency that pulled him away so abruptly? Or was there more to it? Every moment of yesterday replayed in my mind, each detail casting a shadow of doubt. As I stared at the scattered toys and leaves, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss, something was always hidden beneath the surface of our seemingly normal and perfect life.

I, Tiyah, the mom, the caregiver, the overlooked one, am always left to clean up the mess, both literally and figuratively. My gaze drifts towards the newly renovated doghouse, a project courtesy of life’s unpredictable twist of leaves. The dog. His dog. Or rather, the responsibility that was supposed to be the kids’. Six years ago, he came home from work with that familiar glint in his eye, asking if we should get a dog. I looked down at my stretched belly, my regular t-shirt now a makeshift crop top, and then back at his eager expression.

“I’m pregnant, and Aiden is already a handful on his own,” I started, but before I could finish, a bark interrupted my words. I paused, folding laundry, feeling the weight of his decision hanging in the air. I knew he had gone ahead and gotten the dog anyway. My opinion didn’t seem to matter in our marriage; it was always Rye’s decisions that carried weight, and I was simply expected to fall in line.

I made my way to the garage, and there it was: those big, sad eyes and the fluffy blond coat, a silent testament to his unilateral decision-making. “This will be great for the kids,” he said with that same smile as if a dog could magically solve all our problems. He talked about responsibility, about how it would be good for the kids to have something to care for. But at that moment, my mind wasn’t on the kid’s responsibility; I was just trying to get Aiden to eat something other than cheese puffs and ranch and trying to stop the relentless kicking of our unborn child. Six years later, I find myself enjoying the dog’s company more than his. Maybe they should switch houses.

Back amidst the scattered mess they left behind, the trees stood stripped bare, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers against the sky. As I gazed at the stark emptiness of these once-lush giants, an odd thought flitted through my mind. Was it the stupidest thing I’d ever thought, or perhaps the most unexpectedly insightful?

Consider this: in the fall and winter, trees shed their leaves, becoming bare as we pile on layer upon layer to shield ourselves from the cold. Yet, come spring and summer, the trees are clothes in a vibrant tapestry of green, while we strive to shed our layers, to become as bare as possible under the warmth of the sun.

“It’s kind of weird, right?” I’m not entirely sure what prompted this train of thought. Maybe it was the fumes from the van infiltrating my brain, or perhaps it was just a random synapse firing in the chaos of my mind. But as I pondered this notion, I couldn’t help but imagine a world where trees shed their leaves in the spring and summer, leaving us surrounded by barren landscapes.

It would be strange, no doubt, but perhaps not entirely unwelcome. After all, shedding the old to make way for the new is a universal concept, whether it’s leaves falling from trees or clutter clearing our lives. At that moment, amidst the clutter of my thoughts and the debris of their actions, it was a reminder that sometimes, we need to strip away the excess to find clarity beneath.

***

Escape the fog when I felt a sudden tap against my window, jolting me out of my thoughts. I turned to see who it was, hoping against hope it wasn’t her. Tracy Iverson, my across-the-street neighbor who always seemed to be everywhere except across the street. Mid-forties or fifties, I couldn’t be sure. Her husband, a retired divorced lawyer turned mediator, and she ran a small bakery business from their home, delivering home-baked goods with the slogan “Taste like home, wherever you are.” She was probably a good person at heart, but her nosiness earned her the nickname “Mrs. Busy-body” among the neighbors.

She stood there in her apron, a smudge of frosting between her snub nose and thin lips, a classic picture of the neighborhood gossip. We were like oversized kids on a gossipy playground, sipping tea or coffee instead of apple juice or orange juice. In a town where everyone thought they knew everything about everyone, did they know about my husband’s infidelity?

“I noticed your car has been running for quite a bit.” She said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I thought I’d check on my good friend. I know the little one is almost here.”

Translation: “I’ve been keeping an eye on you from my living room while whipping up batches of cookies.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Just lost in thought, Pregnancy brain.” I replied with a strained smile.

“Yes! You know I have one in college and one working in New York City on Wall Street. I remember baby brain very well,” she continued, leaning in as if to reveal the universe's secrets. “I believe pregnancy is supposed to be a 9-month hibernation period for women. Wouldn’t it be great if we could just hide?”

I forced another smile and nodded, eager to end the conversation. “Well, I’m about to go into town to get some things for the house.”

“If you need anything, I’m here,” she said, her stare reminiscent of my mother’s when she had something important to say.

I nodded, acknowledging her offer for what felt like the umpteenth time in the five years since they moved in. I’m normally not rude, but today I’m over everything. Glancing at the dog still sitting there, not a guard dog but rather old, lazy, and wagging his tail, I couldn’t help but think something corny, Life is ruff.

***

I had nothing to get for the house, I lied. I wanted to be alone, which is why I also put my phone on Do Not Disturb. The thought of going into that house just made me feel off. Everything happened there. All the parties were hosted at our place, most of the time. All our firsts were shared there. Two of our kids were almost born there. All the laughter that once traveled through the walls. All the whispered conversations captured in our room while the kids slept or in another room were things I thought we could uphold. I used to feel love and happiness when I went inside. Now all I will see is Lies written on the navy blue door. I decided not to go into that house. Too much. Too soon.

I headed up to Kit’s place. I wanted to be alone, but I also wanted someone to distract my brain for a second or two. He understands my complicated brain and always tells me to put myself first because “How can you care for everyone else if you’re neglecting yourself.” He’s my favorite human and best friend. Kit Gleason, our real estate agent, sold us that house about eleven years ago when this neighborhood was on the verge of becoming the “It” neighborhood it is now. We formed a friendship instantly because we complement each other’s personalities. He moved in with his partner Abel about two years ago. Abe, who is a designer, was overseas helping design homes in underdeveloped countries and Kit’s car was not in the driveway.

I started to park and go in regardless because we have keys to each other’s houses, and his house felt more like home than mine, but I didn’t. I turned left and just drove straight until I had no choice but to turn right.

***

I had no destination, but I was driving. Passing by countless nothingness trees, passing where HE works, and onto the highway. I kept driving. What time is it? I started to wonder.

The billboard screamed, Beer is cheaper than gas. Drink Responsibly. Don’t Drive. Now Open. Bar/Restaurant. Exist 20. I flicked my turn signal and slid in front of one of those hamster commercial cars. They honked. “Sorry.” Damn. What time is it? “Four.” Shit! My kids. There it was. I swerved into the sideways parking space in front of a store next to the bar. My phone was still on that damn “do not disturb” mode.

“Hey, Siri. Call Mom.”

“Calling mom,” Siri replied.

Before I could get a word out, my mom was scolding me reverting me to my younger years. I remained silent. “Where are you?” Good question. “I’ve been calling all day, I even went to your house. The dog was completely starved and I fed him,” Oh, thanks. I’ll give you a medal later. “I called Rye, your sister, that Kit, and you know I don’t like him,” and anyone else who disagrees with you. “The school called Rye and he called me.” I had to get these babies. They were sitting there outside of the school because it was closed. It’s supposed to storm and what if I wasn’t here to get them?” Closed. They have daycare until 5:30 p.m. It’s only a little after four; she is being dramatic. “You know how this makes you look as a wife when your husband has to tell the school that he doesn’t know where you are and apologize for your actions?

As a mother, “Wow!” I interrupted for the first time in my life. I’d had enough of people running me into the ground.

“Excuse you. No disrespect, but you are out of line. He doesn’t own me, and neither do you. Where is all of this coming from, you are my mother?” I snapped, and she stayed silent for the first time in my life. “This one time, out of years of my kids attending that overly priced superficial school, that I’ve forgotten. I am dealing with a lot of shit right now. I need some time, dammit. Let’s not forget, I am pregnant,” I continued my long-overdue rant. “Let’s not forget all the other shit I take care of. I am done being treated like a fucking child who is easily persuaded with guilt. I am a grown woman. I called because I needed someone to pick up my kids and make sure they were safe. I didn’t call to get yelled at like a ten-year-old. You have confirmed that they are taken care of, and I must go,” I exploded.

I quickly pushed the end button.

That felt needed.

I turned the car off.

Breathe.

***

How much gas do I have?

I shrugged my shoulders as a single raindrop splashed onto the windshield. With no luck in finding something to protect me from the possible rain shower, I quickly got out of the car, grabbing my keys and purse. As I closed the door and pressed the lock button, it began to pour down. I gave up. In no hurry, I dragged my weight up to the street art plastered on the gray-stoned building. There, among all the eye-popping art, I noticed these words: “You are at fault when…”. I began to read all the tagged messages left by different people responding to that question.

Tony R. (30) - When you don’t get a haircut from Tony’s Barbershop

Gabby W. (23) - When you don’t speak up.

Angela T. (57) - When you choose their happiness over your own.

Daisy E. (18) - When you let others define your worth, instead of embracing your brilliance."

The last one I read was from Jack G. (32) - When you spend all your money at a bar.

The rain persisted while I stood there, taking a picture of every tagged message. Eventually, I found my way into the doorway of the retro-styled bar, and it seemed as if every eyeball there was now on me. I stood there dripping wet in a black t-shirt that barely covered my belly, wearing a pair of black sweatpants, my hair tied up in an afro bun, and smeared mascara underneath my glasses. Ignoring every drunk, illegal drunk, buzzed, and sober eyeball there, I continued to stand there, searching for an empty seat at the bar. Grabbing a tighter hold on my purse, I made my way toward the seat at the end of the bar next to the bathroom.

I think I have to pee.

***

As I navigated through the lively atmosphere, I couldn’t help but notice a couple nearby who were either deeply in love or so drunk they had forgotten they were in public. Perhaps they simply didn’t care. They were a toothpick away from conceiving, and while there was no shame in their game, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of embarrassment. My husband and I never displayed affection like that in public. Everything was our little secret, and I had thought that’s what I wanted. Lost in thought, I suddenly noticed another person heading towards the empty seat. Almost spraining my ankle, I shuffled faster and managed to place my hands on the seat just as the person turned into the bathroom. I smiled, claiming my territory.

I wrap my purse around the chair and wave my hand at the bartender, signaling that I’m ready to order. He nods in acknowledgment before attending to an older gentleman at the end of the bar. The man looks like he’s on the verge of collapsing with every sip. By “go”, I mean he looks like he’s about to keel over. Yep, sure of it.

The bartender finally makes his way over to me, a hint of exhaustion in his eyes.

“Need a menu?” He asks, trying to balance between serving customers and keeping an eye on the older gentleman.

I glance over at the older gentleman, concern etched on my face.

“Is that older man okay down there?” I inquire, unable to ignore the spectacle unfolding in front of me.

The bartender chuckles, a mix of fondness and resignation in his voice. “Yeah, he’s a regular. He is my Uncle Lou.”

Raising an eyebrow, I can’t help but be intrigued. “Well, it looks like your uncle is about to croak any minute now,” I joke, though there’s a hint of genuine concern behind my words.

The bartender laughs, a weary smile playing on his lips. “You a doctor or something?”

I shake my head, a wry smile forming. “I’m a mom,” I reply with a hint of pride. Yep, it’s my unofficial job title.

“He’s alright. This is his daily ritual. Been doing it since the age of thirteen,” the bartender reassures me, a mix of amusement and resignation in his tone. Thirteen. Wow.

“So, what are you ordering today?” He asks, shifting the conversation back to business.

I pause, contemplating his suggestion. “What’s your alcohol recommendation?” I inquire, suddenly feeling the weight of the day’s events settling on my shoulders.

“I assume you meant food,” he responds with a playful smirk.

I nod, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “That sounds good, but I was asking about your alcohol recommendations,” Tiyah clarified, hoping for something to take the edge off.

“But you’re pregnant,” he remarks a hint of concern in his voice as he obverses my swollen belly.

I meet his gaze with a determined expression. “Correct,” Tiyah replied, emphasizing each word. “But a girl’s gotta unwind somehow.”

He hesitates for a moment, clearly conflicted. “Are you serious?” He asks, his voice laced with uncertainty.

I nod firmly. “Absolutely,” I assert, not wavering in my decision despite his apprehension. “ Besides, I heard a little alcohol never hurt anyone.”

As he grapples with my response, I can’t help but wonder how I ended up seeking solace in a bar on a rainy afternoon. But right now, I’ll take whatever temporary escape I can get.

I’m desperate.

***

That Night

The expression on my face began to change as I stared at him.

No. No.

Everything was rushing back up to the surface.

Not right now.

My eyes began to water and then a tear dropped. Several more. As the tears continued to flow, I felt the weight of the day crashing down on me, each drop carrying a piece of my frustration and despair. The bartender’s kind gesture of offering me napkins brought a small sense of relief, allowing me to wipe away the evidence.

“Rough day,” he murmured, grateful for his understanding as I dabbed at the tears staining my cheeks and lips.

He nods sympathetically, a knowing look passing between us. “I know how it is,” he confides, his voice carrying a hint of empathy that soothes my frayed nerves.

Just then, a young man enters from the back of the bar, adjusting his hat with a nonchalant air. He bears a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.

“You’re late, Pat” the bartender chides him, a hint of frustration in his tone.

The young man simply shrugs, a carefree smile playing on his lips. “Better late than never,” he quips, unfazed by the bartender’s remarks.

“I’m serious, you can’t keep doing this,” the bartender insists, his voice tinged with exasperation.

“Sorry, chill,” Pat replies casually as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

In a fit of frustration, the bartender tosses an apron at the young man’s face, a silent reprimand for his tardiness. Without missing a beat, he catches it with a grin before turning in a corner in the back of the bar.

“My kid brother, Patrick” the bartender explains, a note of resignation in his voice as he watches the young man retreat.

I offer a sympathetic smile, understanding the complexities of sibling dynamics all too well. “ No problem, I have a kid sister,” I confide, a sense of camaraderie forming between us in our shared struggles.

He moves down the bar to attend to another customer before circling back to me. “You said you know how it is, so how is it?” Tiyah says curiously. “Tell me my tears,” I ask, eager to hear his interpretation.

He steps back, studying me with a familiarity that feels oddly comforting, like reconnecting with a long-lost friend from high school.

“Okay, soo,’" he continues to study me.

“Your husband cheated on you with a co-worker,” he begins, his words hitting me like a gut punch. “You’re stuck with a baby on the way. No job. No money of your own.”

I’m taken aback by the accuracy of his assessment. “Damn, he’s good,” I mutter under my breath.

“Now you are at a loss of what to do because all you’ve ever known was you and him,” The bartender continues, his tone compassionate yet matter-of-fact. “Now you’re trying to find yourself instead of cursing him out just yet, but stumbled upon my amazing bar where my staff and I pretend we’re therapists that dose you up with some liquid courage.”

I find myself unable to meet his gaze, instead focusing on the photo behind a replica of Banksy’s Girl with Balloon. It’s a poignant reminder of life’s fragility and impermanence, a sentiment my mother often echoed.

“How fragile this life can be,” I murmur, lost in thought. “You think things are going perfectly, but they aren’t. The reality is that nothing is perfect. And what is forever? Forever until someone lets go.”

As warm, salty tears continue to paint my face, I take a deep breath and reply,

“Close. There’s also a dog that I grew to like, and my husband cheated on me with HER. Can someone give me a drum roll?” I quip, the tension momentarily broken as the patrons pound on the tables in response.

My smirk fades as the doors to the bar swing open.

***

There they are - the ones responsible for my tears. Dressed to the nines.

Oh, wait.

It’s an early birthday celebration.

I had forgotten her birthday is tomorrow, and that’s why I went over there this morning - to plan a big bash with my mom and HER. Guilt washes over me as I realize the magnitude of my forgetfulness.

No longer feeling lost, I stand up and shoot a look at the bartender, who seems to have traced the tracks of my tears. As I walk past the other patrons, all eyes are on us, the tension palpable in the air.

With a sense of determination, I stride toward them, ready to confront the lies and deceit head-on. Today, I put myself first, and whatever follows, follows. The atmosphere in the bar shifts, and for a moment, it feels like I’ve stepped onto the set of Cheers. Is it the pregnancy or the newfound resolve within me that makes the atmosphere so welcoming? I’m not sure, but one thing is certain - I won’t let anyone treat me the way I’ve allowed them to in the past. Today, I take control of my narrative.

As anger surges within me, my cheeks ignite with heat, my breaths shallow and rapid. A bitter taste lingers on the tip of my tongue. I clench my fists tightly, the pounding of my heart matching the rhythm of my rising fury.

As the weight of their betrayal settles in, I resist the urge to unleash my fury upon them. Why give them that satisfaction? What’s the point? They don’t care about me, so why waste my breath on them? I unclasp the necklace holding my wedding ring, my swollen fingers struggling against the metal. With a deep breath, I take her hand, tears streaming down her face, and place the ring in her palm.

“You wanted my life so bad, here you go,”

“I used to call you my little sister, now I will call you nothing. I used to call you my husband,” I begin, my voice trembling with suppression emotion. “I used to always want to make you two happy.” The bar falls silent as I speak, and I can’t shake the feeling that someone is recording this moment.

“Happy 30th birthday,” I continue, my voice breaking.

“I guess this is it for us. I can’t stand to look at you right now. And you,” I turn to him, my gaze filled with disappointment.

“Perfectly forever, huh?”

His vows on our wedding day echo in my mind, a painful reminder of the promises he made and the trust I placed in him.

“I am so tired,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I want to yell at you both. Honestly, but thanks for this favor. Should’ve told me sooner,” I add with a bitter edge, my sarcasm tinged with sadness.

“I want some fries, bartender?” Tiyah calls out, desperate to shift the focus away from the heartache threatening to consume me.

“Coming up,” The bartender replies, his voice a welcome distraction from the turmoil within me.

I make my way back to my seat, the bartender informs THEM that the bar is closed.

Everyone in the bar starts clapping.

***

As I sit at this bar looking all around, I realize that I’ll likely be making this 30-40 minute drive more often.

Maybe even move closer.

“By the way, my name is Griffin,” the bartender offers, breaking the silence.

“Ok, Bartender,” I respond, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

“I’m Tiyah, but this is kind of late, don’t you think?”

“Better late than never,” he says with a shrug, his easygoing demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos of my emotions.

As I sat at the bar, laughter, and chatter filling the air around me, I felt a sudden urge to break away from the crowd.

“Damn. I haven’t even had a chance to pee yet,” I muttered to myself, shooting the bartender a sheepish grin.

He chuckled in response, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “No worries, I’ll save your spot,” he said with a wink.

I made my way to the restroom, the cool tiles underfoot a welcome relief from the warmth of the bar. When I returned, the bartender had poured me a refreshing mocktail, a colorful concoction of fruit juices and sparkling water that danced across my taste buds.

***

Hours passed in the blink of an eye, the world outside the bar fading into insignificance as we talked and laughed, sharing stories and secrets like old friends. When closing time finally rolled around, he locked up the bar with a practiced hand, the keys jangling in his pocket as he walked me to my car.

As we passed by the tagged wall once more, the vibrant colors standing out against the darkness of the night, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement and possibility bubbling up inside me. “I’ve always wanted to tag something,” I mused aloud, a mischievous glint in my eye. Griffin nodded, eyes scanning the wall. “People come here and write what they need to release. You wouldn’t believe what’s been added over the years.” He unlocked the doors and stepped inside for a moment. He came back with  a small basket of paint markers. “We keep these for people who want to leave something behind—just words, no damage,” he said with a slight smile, handing me one. I hesitated, then took the marker. Beneath the question “You are at fault when…”, I wrote:

“When you allow others to create your narrative. — Tiyah M.

As we stood side by side, our laughter mingling with the soft hum of the night, Griffin handed me a slip of paper with his number scribbled on it… “In case you ever wanted to continue our conversation,” he said his eyes twinkling. “Are you sure, I am a handful right now. Pregnant, Almost divorced?” Tiyah exclaimed. Griffin nods “Yes, anytime during the day or stop by the bar.”

I tucked the slip of paper into my pocket with a smile, feeling a sense of anticipation building within me. As we said our goodbyes and I drove away from the bar, the neon lights fading in the rearview mirror, I couldn’t shake the feeling of warmth that had enveloped me during our time together.

In the quiet of the car, I replayed our conversation in my mind, savoring the connection we had shared and the sense of freedom and possibility that had come with it. But as I drove on, I also realized that my time at the bar had changed me in other ways too.

I had entered seeking solace and escape, but I had emerged feeling lighter, freer, more at peace with myself and the world around me. It was a subtle shift, imperceptible to anyone but me, but it was there nonetheless.

As I drove into the night, the twinkling overhead, a quiet peace began to settle in my chest. The end wasn’t just the end of us—it was the beginning of me. This was the moment that cracked everything wide open—the shedding of the leaves. The moment that ended the performance and exposed the truth. The moment that started our end… and my becoming. A bloom of new was rising within me, even as the old drooped and withered. My narrative was beginning to unfold—ripe with endless possibility.

So, as one door closed, another opened.

And that…

That’s God