The paint peeling at the edge of the hallway wall needles at me, a reminder of the endless list of things left undone. My parents just left, and the kids are gone for the afternoon, leaving the air bright and still. There’s already a request for a showing today, and it’s down to me and Reginald to get this place in shape before strangers arrive to poke through the remains of our life.
I walk from room to room, my footsteps echoing in the quiet. I see the ghostly outline where the sofa used to be, the hardwood floors worn down by years of our son’s toy trucks and our daughter’s dance parties. No amount of cleaning can erase that history. In the right light, I see everything at once: the nick in the doorframe, the faded carpet at the foot of the stairs, the sullen kitchen tiles stained with spilled wine from arguments we can’t take back.
“Presentable over perfection,” I tell myself, a mantra for the moment and for life. Reginald just nods, and we head to Lowe’s together for paint and spackle and whatever else will buy us the illusion of effort.
It’s strange how easily Reginald and I fall into old rhythms when it’s about chores. We can joke about the color of caulk or the merits of two-inch versus three-inch rollers, but not about anything deeper. All the real conversations have been deferred so long, they’re like unopened mail stacked in a junk drawer.
We don’t argue over the paint color. That alone feels like a small miracle. We are efficient, even pleasant. But underneath, I sense the old, invisible wires: the ones that trip us up every time we try to talk about what really happened, or what we actually want. It’s as if we both know that crossing those wires will set off a fuse neither of us is ready to handle.
Maybe it’s because we both know the end is near. Maybe it’s because we’re both exhausted and out of words. I’m not proud of how transactional it feels, but I can’t pretend otherwise.
“Let’s grab an early dinner after this,” Reginald suggests. His voice is light, but there’s an undercurrent I can’t name. Maybe regret, maybe relief. I nod, and for a moment we are just two people running errands, not exes, not adversaries—just a pair of parents killing time.
We finish at Lowe’s, the scent of sawdust and fresh paint clinging to our clothes. The sun is still high as we head to Texas Roadhouse, the promise of their bread rolls and honey-cinnamon butter an unspoken treaty. It feels like nothing’s changed until we hit the twenty-minute wait time. Reginald, ever practical, suggests killing time at Barnes & Noble.
I light up—he knows me too well. The travel magazine section is my secret escape hatch. For those few minutes, I can imagine myself in Norway, or Morocco, or the wilds of the Andes. I can almost taste the air of other continents, feel the hush of centuries-old cathedrals, the pulse of a city where no one knows my name or my story. It’s easier to imagine a better life somewhere else than it is to confront the reality of what I’m leaving behind.
Not even five steps into Barnes & Noble and a familiar cold dread floods my limbs. My body knows before my eyes do. Then I see her. Donna—gray bob, eyes sharp as chipped glass. My stomach knots. I’m supposed to feel happy to see a familiar face, although I brace for impact. I manage a smile anyway. “Donna! What a nice surprise to see you here.”
She steps forward, arms extended for a hug, but her gaze flicks past me and over my shoulder, straight to Reginald, who lingers by the display of glossy bestsellers at the front. Her embrace is brief, stiff, more like a checkpoint than a greeting.
“Hello, Lena. I was just leaving.” She says it in a way that sounds like a warning, eyes darting between me and Reginald. There’s a current moving under her skin, a barely restrained tension.
I try to shake it off and explain, “We’re just passing the time until our table’s ready at Texas Roadhouse.”
Her gaze sharpens, prying. “Oh.” She stares at Reginald, then back at me, her lips pinched. The silence crowds in. I scramble for the next social step.
“Donna, this is Reginald,” I say, forcing a note of brightness. “Reg, this is a friend from the divorce recovery group.”
Reginald offers his hand, his smile practiced and gentle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Donna, with a mechanical smile of her own, shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you too.”
Reginald dips his head, hand over his heart in a gesture that’s half-respect, half-performance. “I’ll leave you two ladies to chat.” He gives me a look—something between encouragement and apology—then heads for the cafe in the back.
Now it’s just me and Donna, the humming tension between us palpable and impossible to dodge. Her face shifts—surprise, calculation, something sharper. “That’s your husband?” She spits it before I can brace. “He’s so handsome. So nice. You’re crazy for wanting to divorce him.”
The floor tilts beneath me. Heat rushes up my neck as she barrels on, her voice low and conspiratorial. “I never understood your story. It always felt like something was missing. Like everyone else in that group. Especially the men.”
Her judgment lands like a slap. I can’t find my footing, can’t think of any defense. She’s never heard my story, not really, not beyond the surface. She’s met Reginald for thirty seconds, and already she’s rewritten my entire narrative. I want to list every therapy session, every sleepless night, every time I tried to patch the holes in my marriage until I was out of thread and hope. But the words tangle in my throat.
“But we’ve already been separated for a year,” I finally speak. “We’re co-parenting. We’re friends. He came with me today to get paint for the house. That’s all.”
Donna’s eyes bore into me, unblinking. “That’s not normal. Separated couples don’t do errands together. They don’t go to dinner like they’re still married. Like they’re still in love.”
I explain again, as if repetition will make it true. “I care for him, but I’m not in love with him. We’ve tried, really tried, to fix things. Divorce is the next step.”
Donna’s face hardens, her jaw clenched so tight I wonder if her teeth will crack. “But you took a vow of marriage. Breaking that vow is a sin.” Then, quieter, eyes wild with accusation, “You remind me of my husband. Leaving someone good. Unless you’ve already met someone.” She leans even closer, her breath sour with coffee. “Are you… a narcissist?”
Narcissist. The word hisses through me, icy and familiar. My body floods with the old freeze: the urge to shrink, to vanish. I want to yell at her, to recount every time I tried to explain my feelings and was belittled for having any. But my voice is stuck halfway between a gasp and a plea.
Her eyes scan me one last time, a final, unyielding verdict. “You know, I don’t think I’m coming back to the group. It’s full of people making excuses. And I’m definitely not going to Lesley’s get-together.”
Her words just keep coming—a flood of disappointment, judgment, and righteous loneliness. By the time she’s done, my arms are numb from holding the weight of it. I want to tell her she never really listened to any of us. That she came to the group divorced herself, wanting to be fixed, not to understand. That her comfort was more important than anyone else’s story. But I know it wouldn’t matter.
I breathe in the newsprint and coffee stink of the store, remembering the way I’d told myself not to care if people liked me. That I could be the villain, as long as I was free. But in this moment, the old ache spikes of wanting to be understood, to be seen as good, to not be the monster she paints me to be.
My phone buzzes: the table is ready. I gather my composure into something resembling a spine. “Donna, I’m sorry you didn’t have a good experience in group. I thought it would help to hear the others’ stories and help you understand your own. Maybe it still can, if you let it.” I step back, my voice steadier than I feel. “Goodbye.”
She doesn’t answer. I let her walk away, head high, as if she’s the one saving herself from poison.
I walk toward the cafe, but my feet feel disconnected from the floor. Her words echo in my skull. Crazy. Narcissist. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the store’s quiet hum. All those years of therapy, every effort to regulate my nervous system, to become someone safe for my children, and I’m right back here. None of it matters to her.
But I know what it took to get this far. To admit the marriage was a mausoleum and walk out into unknown air. To stand in the loneliness without running back to the familiar cage. My therapists gave it names—trauma, attachment, codependency—but they never called it narcissism. They called it survival. They told me healing is messy. That’s why I’m here, in this bookstore, in this body, trying to hold myself together.
I see Reginald waiting in the cafe, perfectly composed, scrolling on his phone. He looks up, catching the flicker of emotion across my face. “Are you OK?” Then his brow furrows, concern lining his face. “Did she say something to upset you?”
Tears prick hot behind my eyes. I nod, not trusting myself to speak yet. But the next words come out anyway, raw and quiet, “She thinks I’m a narcissist.”
“You’re not a narcissist, Lena. You’re one of the most caring people I know.” He reaches for my hand, just for a moment, reassuring me. “She doesn’t know you.” The gesture is gentle, not romantic, just a tether to keep me from drifting too far out. For a second, I let myself lean into it, remembering the good parts. Then I pull my hand away, wiping at the corner of my eye.
We walk to the restaurant together, his hand at the small of my back steadying me. Yet I keep replaying Donna’s words, her face, the chill of being seen as something monstrous, my mind caught in the trap of her logic. If I’m not the victim, I must be the villain. I want to hate her, to dismiss her as a hypocrite, but I know that’s too easy.
The restaurant’s dim lighting feels harsher than the fluorescent buzz of the store, but I pretend not to notice as I follow Reginald to our table. My jaw aches from clenching it, and my chest aches from trying to contain the storm that Donna unleashed in me. I can still hear her voice, rigid and righteous, slicing through all my defenses.
Narcissist. You’re crazy. You took a vow. It’s a sin. Each accusation is a knife twisting a little deeper with every step I take. The pressure in my skull grows until I know I’ll splinter if I don’t get away, so I excuse myself to the restroom before I lose composure entirely.
Leaving someone good. The words tunnel into the softest parts of me, dredging up the oldest fears that I’m defective, selfish, wrong. My entire body flinches as if struck, letting the tears come. I break open in the stall, shoulders heaving, hot streams burning my cheeks.
It’s not just what Donna said. It’s every time someone dismisses my pain, every echo of my mother telling me to be nice, every memory of swallowing my own needs. I press my palms to my face, but it doesn’t muffle the sob. The sound is a raw, ragged thing, vibrating from my chest, through my teeth, into the bones of my skull.
Then another voice, the one I’ve spent over a year trying to nurture, reminds me that I chose this path because I wanted to live. I want to model something better for my kids. I want to be whole, even if it means being called a villain.
When the tears finally slow, I force myself to breathe, to reassemble my face into something passable. I dab at my swollen eyelids and fix my hair in the mirror. I look like I’ve gone a few rounds in the ring, yet I let out a shaky laugh. “You are not a narcissist,” I whisper to my reflection, but it lands flat, unconvincing.
Reginald is waiting at the table. Even the bread basket and butter remain untouched, as if he knows I need a minute before we pretend to be normal. He’s watching me, eyes narrowed with concern, but he doesn’t press. I sense the way his presence grounds me, how it’s always been equal parts comforting and infuriating that he can read my pain so easily.
“You were crying,” he whispers. Not a question. “Don’t let that woman get inside your head.” He pours me a glass of water and slides it across the table. “She sounds like the kind of person who uses her religion as a weapon, not to help people.”
I try to smile, but my lips tremble. “I know I shouldn’t let her get to me, but she was so quick to judge. She didn’t even listen. I defended her when Abigail went after her in the group. And now, one look at you and I’m suddenly the crazy one. The narcissist.”
Reginald reaches for my hand, a gentle squeeze. “She was projecting. You know that, right? Seeing us together probably reminded her of everything she lost. She’s still bitter over her divorce.”
Resentment makes sense. Projection, sure. But it’s the word—narcissist—that stuck, like a barb under my skin. I try to push it out, but it festers, twisting into new shapes. I can’t shake Donna’s other accusation, either: You’ve already met someone. The phrase rings colder now that I’m sitting across from Reginald, the man I once promised everything. My stomach knots, thinking of Jeff, of the unexpected brightness he brought into my gray world.
I didn’t plan on meeting anyone, not while I was still in pieces. I told myself friendship was all I wanted. But with every walk, every text, every conversation, every dinner, every prayer, Jeff became more than an escape. He became a possibility. Does that make me a narcissist? Or just someone desperate to feel alive again?
I look at Reginald, who is telling a story about our son, and I know, in my bones, this separation isn’t about another man. It’s about finally admitting our marriage was running on fumes long before Jeff ever appeared.
Reginald pats my hand, making me laugh despite myself. “Look,” he says, “her reaction is about her, not you. How many exes do you see sitting here like this, eating bread and butter like normal people? Don’t let her make you feel ashamed of that.”
I chew over his words, letting them melt into my bloodstream. Maybe he’s right. Maybe all of us are just trying to rewrite our own stories, to find a narrative where we’re not the villain.
For a moment, there’s a flicker of relief. I may not convince everyone of my goodness, but I can choose to believe it for myself. That it’s possible to still be the hero of your own story. Maybe the only way to break the cycle is to be hated for a little while. That survival sometimes looks like selfishness to people who want you to stay small.
Throughout dinner, we keep things light. I watch Reginald eat, a familiar ache rising in my chest. This might be the last time we do this. Soon, even these small moments will be gone, scattered across separate calendars and new addresses.
Driving home, paint cans rattling in the trunk, I realize I don’t miss the marriage as much as I thought I would. What I miss is the idea of what we could have been, the version of us that never quite made it out of the blueprint phase. I breathe through the ache and remind myself: presentable over perfection. It’s the best I can do.
When we pull into the driveway, we see the realtor’s sign out front announcing the house’s availability. Another piece of the old life up for grabs. The kids aren’t home yet, so we move through the rooms, fixing what still needs fixing, side by side but separate. There’s no anger in our silence, just the soft echo of two people doing their best with what’s left.
Reginald stands in the hallway, hesitating. “If you ever need help with anything, just ask.”
The words land gently, like a hand on my back. “Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “Same to you.”
He smiles, then turns and walks into his bedroom, the door clicking behind him. I’m alone in the hallway, the walls echoing with the ghosts of what was and the possibility of what might be.
Later that evening, my fingers hover over Jeff’s name. I need to hear his voice, his prayers. To feel him pull me back from the edge, to tell me Donna is wrong. My thumb trembles as I type, a silent plea: tell me I’m not the villain.
The phone rings. I answer, recapping my experience with Donna. Yet his voice comes through flat, distant, like he’s speaking from the bottom of a well. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says, “and for how it made you feel.” The words land hollow. I wait for more—the insight, the warmth, the gentle reframing that usually follows. But there’s only silence on the line, thick and strange.
I tell him about Donna’s accusations, the narcissist label, the way she looked at Reginald like he was a saint and I was the serpent. Jeff listens, or he pretends to. I can’t tell anymore.
“She’s crazy,” he says finally. “It was wrong of her to attack you. She did the same thing to me once. Told me that my divorce was probably my fault.”
I nod, though he can’t see me, waiting for the next part. The part where he pulls me close with his words, where he tells me I’m brave, strong, where he reminds me who I am. But he doesn’t go there. He goes somewhere else entirely.
“It was good of Reginald to be there for you,” he states. The sentence hangs in the air between us, sharp and unexpected. I feel it like a door closing, slowly, quietly, right in my face.
Reginald. Again. Jeff keeps circling back to him. Reginald’s support, Reginald’s perspective, Reginald making me laugh. Each mention lands like a small stone dropped into still water, the ripples spreading, distorting everything. I reach for more, some thread of empathy, some sign that he feels this with me. But his voice stays level, detached, as if we’re discussing the weather.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. That he’s tired. That I’m raw from Donna and reading too much into everything. But my body knows better. The flutter in my gut, the tightness in my chest is screaming what his voice doesn’t say.
Something is off.
Jeff shifts the conversation to the spa massage, rescheduling, and logistics. I agree, numb, wondering when we stopped talking about the things that matter. Then he prays. For me, for my children, for himself. Melissa and his kids, as always. And then Reginald. He includes Reginald in his prayers, and the kindness of it feels like a costume. I can’t tell if he’s showing me he’s not bitter, or if he’s performing compassion for an audience of one.
We end with our nightly breathing ritual. I choose compassion for the inhale, expectations for the exhale. The irony tastes bitter. Where is his compassion? Why does he always need my approval, my attention, my admiration? Why am I working so hard for every emotional crumb he offers?
“Nice chatting with you,” he says. “See ya. Bye.”
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone; the screen is dark and empty. My hand aches as if I’ve been gripping a shard of glass. My gut coils, a vice-grip tightening around my ribs, squeezing the air from my lungs.
I press my palm to my chest, feel my heart hammering, and the question rises, unbidden, unstoppable: Is Jeff who he claims to be?
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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