I thought a mountain getaway would bring us closer—a resort, spa, everything included. I packed with hope, imagining snow, silence, and laughter like we used to share. But the next morning, suitcase in hand, he looked at me and said, “You… were coming?” The words hit like ice water. I had spent days planning, printing the tickets, brushing my hair with excitement, only to realize he hadn’t even pictured me there.

At first, I thought it was another woman. My chest burned as I followed his car through winding streets, my suitcase still in the trunk. Every turn, every red light, my heart beat louder, convinced I’d catch him with someone young and polished. But when he finally stopped, the door opened, and out walked his mother—purse in hand, smiling like he was still her little boy. He had chosen her, not me, for the trip I dreamed would save us.

The betrayal wasn’t romantic—it was deeper. His loyalty had never truly been mine. I sat frozen, memories of his mother’s Sunday lunches and “baby boy” comments flooding back. That day, something in me shifted. I didn’t follow them to the resort. Instead, I called the hotel and canceled both reservations. My voice was steady as I said, “Yes, I’m sure.”

Two days later, he came home humming, dragging his bag as if nothing had changed. But taped to the door was my note: “The locks are changed. Your key won’t work. I’ll send the divorce papers soon. –Jennifer.”

Inside, I poured cranberry juice, lit a candle, and reopened the resort’s website. This time, I booked just one ticket—for me. Not to fix anything, but to start something new. For the first time in years, I chose myself. And it felt like peace.