The days blur together. Somewhere between the text threads and the nightly FaceTime calls, Jeff has become a rhythm I don’t question, especially the prayers. I wait for them now, expect them, the way I expect sunrise. Each one layers over my own conversations with God like a second blanket, and I tell myself the extra warmth is reassurance. That somebody out there cares. That Jeff is that somebody because he keeps saying so.
Amazing. An inspiration. A blessing sent by God. An angel.
The sweet words pile up, and I let them. A small, stubborn part of me winces — a little over the top — but I swallow the objection. It’s nice to be thought of. To be seen daily, even if the seeing feels performed.
One morning, a link from Jeff appears: a spa. Massages, pampering, a day of nothing for all the hard work I’ve poured into staging the house, preparing it for photos, for the for-sale sign my agent will plant in the yard in just a few days. It’s only mid-summer, yet my vacation days have vanished into a job I never wanted, crunch time for a life I’m dismantling room by room.
Jeff’s encouragement keeps coming, relentless and bright. Capable. Resilient. Still amazing. The massage will be “a well-deserved treat,” he texts, and the foot soak package “makes it worthwhile.”
“This all sounds wonderful!” I type back. “Thank you.”
I protested at first, of course. Extravagant. Unnecessary. The housework is simply part of the process; however stressful. But Jeff explains that the gift certificate expires before year’s end, that Melissa declined it last year, and that it will only go to waste. I imagine the certificate curling in a drawer, expiring like a promise, and I accept.
Part of me understands Melissa’s refusal. She asked for the divorce after all. Yet another part wonders how she’s really coping with the changes she set in motion. I know my own road has been difficult, and I’m nowhere near whatever destination waits ahead.
Jeff mentioned once that she developed an autoimmune disease years ago. Lupus, he said, and the word stuck. The symptoms he described: gasping after a flight of stairs, joint pain, a pharmacy of medications. It all arranged itself into a pattern I couldn’t unsee. Her body attacking itself. I thought, “Of course.” She’s stuck, holding hurt and resentment so long it has gone cellular.
The thought sits in my chest. I know that feeling. I’ve watched it in my mother, who gave in to my father’s emotional abuse until she became a ghost in her own home. And I see it in myself now: the avoidance, the refusal to move forward because forward means admitting how much I’ve let myself fade. I’ve been holding negativity like a poison, letting it settle into my own cells, and wondering why I feel so lost.
Brave, I tell myself. Melissa asked Jeff for a divorce, just as I told Reginald to “walk away from me, and walk away from us.” That was a year ago. We haven’t truly walked away from each other, though. Not really. In that, we’re no different from Melissa and Jeff, still sharing the same roof, still breathing the same stagnant air.
Strength, I remind myself. God is still here, feeding me strength to follow through. I pray Melissa finds hers too, or at least the courage to take one step. Because it only takes one step to change the direction of your entire life.
I’m out on the back patio, watering my plants and herbs. The morning sun is already warm on my shoulders as I move from pot to pot, and I catch myself whispering apologies to the basil, the mint, the rosemary. Soon they’ll belong somewhere else, or worse, they won’t and be gone. I’ll miss this small garden more than I let myself admit.
My jasmine plant is in full bloom. I stand there for a moment, breathing it in. The sweet, heavy scent that means summer, means home, means mine. I snip a few stems and place them in a jar of water for propagation. The other jar already has roots, white and delicate, reaching for something. I transfer the blossoming plant into a small pot, hold it up to the light, and capture a photo.
This one is for Jeff.
My thumb hovers over the send button. It’s just a plant, I tell myself. But it isn’t. This jasmine has bloomed through every spring and summer I’ve lived here. It’s witnessed my marriage, my unraveling, the nights I sat on this very patio wondering if I’d ever feel whole again. Giving it away feels like handing over a piece of my history, my heart laid bare in roots and soil.
“This Jasmine plant is for you,” I type, attaching the photo. “Let me know if you have some time later today, or this week for me to give you your plant.”
“This absolutely warms my heart,” he responds. “Thank you. It really means a lot to me.”
“You’re very welcome,” I reply. “I’ll be out until late afternoon. I can drop it off at a time that’s convenient.”
“I’m home all week, so it could even be a weekday if you’re busy,” he shoots back. “The last thing I’d want is for you to feel like this is a burden. Don’t feel obligated to.”
Burden? Obligation? The words sting more than they should. I’m the one offering to give him something I love. Why would he think otherwise? “As I’ve said before, you’re not a burden to me,” I assure him. “I don’t feel obligated because I’m choosing to do this.” A few seconds later, he sends a heart emoji, and I stare at it, wondering which of us needs more reassurance.
I gaze at the flowering jasmine, its delicate white petals luminous in the afternoon light. The floral scent fills me with joy, but beneath it, something trembles. This plant is family. It has bloomed through every season of my time here, steady and faithful when little else was. Giving Jeff something this meaningful feels risky, even scary. And giving him this is an act of trust, a risk I’m choosing to take.
I hope he takes care of this plant in the same way he cares for me.
Hours later, Jeff messages me. “I’m free for the rest of the day. What’s your schedule like?”
I’m still running errands, my head spinning from the endless chores left before the house showing. My to-do list has become a blur, each errand bleeding into the next. But I answer, “I’m still out, getting stuff done. Would you like to meet me at the Starbucks near the Super Walmart since I’ll be around that area? I’ll bring your plant.”
“Give me 10 minutes to get ready,” he responds.
Honestly, I need a break just to sit down and drink something cold. Starbucks sounds relaxing right now. When Jeff arrives, he can’t resist adding dessert to our refreshers because a little indulgence doesn’t hurt, he claims. So I happily share a strawberry swirl loaf with him, the sweetness cutting through the chaos of my day. He has this way of being a “relief valve,” of offering me space where nothing is required and no one is a burden.
Not even me.
Yet our break at Starbucks is short-lived. Jeff lingers over his cup, asking, “Can we hang out a little longer before we head home?” His voice is low and eager, as if he’s asking for something illicit, the next distraction.
“Sure,” I glance across the parking lot. “We can have fun at Bob’s Discount Furniture. I’ll pretend I’m furnishing my future home.” I say it as if the idea just struck me, as if I haven’t already imagined walking into a showroom to pick out the bones of my next life.
I’ve always wanted to update my place—ditch the faded hand-me-downs. A house that doesn’t echo with old arguments, rooms filled with things I choose, solitude as sacred instead of suffocating.
As soon as we enter, I’m dizzy with possibility. Every plush sectional, every raw edge of reclaimed wood, every matte-black accent lamp calls to me. For a moment, I can taste it: a new house, a new rhythm, walls that have never absorbed the sound of disagreements. I fall into a cloud-colored sofa and bounce, laughing, and for a moment I am nothing but weightless joy.
Jeff laughs too, and the salespeople join in. One of them, a young guy in a navy polo, calls out, “Careful, that’s the comfiest one in the store!” I grin and bounce again, relishing the low-stakes rebellion of being seen, of being a little too much in public.
Jeff follows as I float from set to set, touching everything—linen, velvet, the cool lacquer of walnut coffee tables, the fuzz of chenille pillows—dragging my fingers over each one. He watches me, eyes wide, mouth open in a half-smile, and I realize he’s never seen this part of me.
I picture myself hosting a dinner party with real friends, good wine, laughter that doesn’t curdle into accusation. But when I check the price tag, reality slaps me awake. My taste exceeds my budget. I force a smile, a silent prayer to cover the sting of want. I’ll get there eventually. In God’s time.
Patience. Trust. Faith. The words loop through my mind, but they feel hollow under the fluorescent lights. I walk past a dining set I can’t afford and feel the massive gap between the woman I am and the one I long to be. The work it will take to cross it feels exhausting before I’ve even begun.
“This is nice. Kind of pricey,” Jeff comments, eyeing a massive chaise lounge. Its upholstery is the color of heavy cream, the kind that stains if you just look at it wrong. “Sit down with me,” he says, patting the cushion with an inviting grin.
I hesitate, then play along, sitting on the edge. The chaise is so wide we could both sprawl and never touch, but he immediately closes the distance, pulling me toward him with an arm around my shoulder. His body is massive; his embrace is overwhelming. I freeze for a second, then make myself exhale, letting his warmth sink into me.
“Ah, this is nice,” he sighs, settling in. “Just relaxing like this. Can you imagine this in your living room?”
I look at the chaise, then at him, and try to picture it. It’s too big, too ostentatious, too much for my taste. Yet I just smile and nod, unwilling to pop the bubble of his delight. I let him nuzzle closer, though I don’t quite reciprocate.
Instead, a strange discomfort creeps in. I can’t name it, but my body grows rigid, the old tension blooming in my neck and shoulders. I wonder if it’s the public setting, or if I just don’t want to be seen like this—with him, pretending intimacy in a staged living room.
My gaze wanders and lands on a female sales associate sorting papers nearby. She glances over, her expression perfectly blank before turning away, and the performed intimacy curdles into public embarrassment. I seize the excuse, pointing to a more streamlined chaise at the end of the row and untangling myself from Jeff’s embrace. “That one’s more my style,” I say.
We drift through the rest of the store, but the energy has shifted. I’m more cautious, less performative, and after an hour, we leave, amusement spent. Outside, the sun is blinding, the parking lot shimmering with heat.
“You’re so much fun,” Jeff mentions as we cross toward our cars. “You have so much vitality. Especially when you plopped onto the couch, bouncing on the cushions. Even the salesman laughed with you.” He stares at the concrete for a moment, then back at me. “My family and I… we don’t do this sort of stuff. The goofing off, the misbehaving.”
The words land with a dull thud. I picture his home—quiet, ordered, closed off. Is that what he means? That he’s never been allowed to be silly? I don’t ask. I just remember how, even at its worst, my marriage had moments of unselfconscious laughter.
Reginald and I used to have our own brand of silliness: prank wars, weird inside jokes, laughter that makes your ribs hurt. Even after the love was gone, we could still make each other laugh. The kids would join in, and for a moment, we’d be a family being ridiculous together. A brief, silly truce in a quiet war.
“Thanks for the Starbucks break and furniture shopping with me,” I say, hoping to lighten things.
“Oh, my word. I had fun,” he replies, beaming. “Thank you for the plant and for being you.” He walks me to my car, then heads to his own, but neither of us leaves right away.
I’m settling into my seat when I see him roll down his window. “I’ll talk to you later. See ya,” he waves, and I wave back. “Bye.”
A beat passes. “I kind of don’t want you to go yet,” he calls out, voice almost sheepish. “Any chance I could get a kiss? If it’s okay with you.”
I pause, hands on the steering wheel. The request is so carefully worded: “any chance,” “if it’s okay,” and that a “no” would feel like a slap. He looks so hopeful, so vulnerable, that I can’t bring myself to say no. I get out, walk to his car, and watch his eyes widen. I lean in, and our lips meet: soft, tentative, almost innocent. It’s over in a second, and we both laugh, a nervous sound, as if we’ve been caught doing something forbidden.
Driving home, I replay the afternoon. Not just the kiss, but the way Jeff looked at me, the way I let myself be seen. I realize I’ve spent more time with him than I have with anyone in a long time. I’ve given him a sprig of my jasmine plant, a piece of my home. Maybe even a piece of my heart.
Though underneath the fluttering excitement is something heavier. A warning? A memory? I sit in my car, parked in the driveway, and try to name it. Maybe it’s the knowledge that feelings like this can’t last. That I could get hurt again. The longing, the fear, the possibility.
The feeling isn’t just excitement; it’s hesitation. It’s the familiar fear of being vulnerable, of letting myself hope, and a part of me refuses to trust any of it.
Can I depend on Jeff to be steady? Is he capable of an emotionally mature relationship, or am I just a stopgap on his search for happiness, just convincing myself this is real?
And if I let him in—really let him in—am I even ready? Will he ever see the whole of me, or only the curated version I allow?
I want to believe I’m ready. I want to believe this is what healing looks like. But for now, I just sit in my parked car, suspended between two worlds, counting the heartbeats until I can move again.
This post is part of a fictionalized memoir. The emotional experiences and themes are drawn from my life, but all names, identities, timelines, and circumstances have been altered, obscured, or combined to protect privacy — including my own. These writings are not meant to diagnose, label, or describe any real person. Instead, they illuminate relational patterns that can occur in emotionally imbalanced or narcissistic dynamics. Any resemblance to actual individuals is coincidental or intentionally obscured. The intention is healing and awareness, not identification. These posts are for storytelling purposes only and do not constitute professional advice.
The images woven through My Journey and The Lessons are my own photographs — moments I captured on trails, in forests, beside rivers, and under open sky. They are pieces of my story and are not to be copied or used without permission.
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