You told me your world was simple.
Work.
Motherhood.
Sleep.
That’s what you said.
That’s the story you handed me,
and I believed it because I wanted to.
I filled in the blanks with trust.
Built a future out of benefit of the doubt.
Turned excuses into understanding.
Turned red flags into reasons to stay.
The truth showed up late,
but it showed up.
And the part that hurts
isn’t what you did.
It’s realizing how much of myself
I poured into someone
who had already decided
this was temporary.
People think heartbreak sounds like anger.
Mine sounds like disappointment.
I’m not standing here bitter.
Bitterness means I’d still carry you.
I’m standing here counting the hours,
the effort,
the loyalty,
the pieces of myself I invested
in a story that was never real.
And if I’m mourning anything tonight,
it isn’t you.
It’s the woman who loved you honestly.
The woman who believed every word.
The woman who kept showing up
for someone who was never going to do the same.
That’s the tragedy.
Not that you lied.
Not that you cheated.
It’s that I gave my best
to someone who was never worth it,
and had to learn my value
from the loss.
