My husband, Stan, told me I was holding him back.
He said if I truly loved him, I’d move across the country for his dream job.
I couldn’t.
My parents were aging, and I was their only support.
I wasn’t abandoning them.
So he left.
New city.
New job.
New girlfriend.
I mourned the marriage, rebuilt my life, and learned how to be alone.
Then last week, there was a knock at my door.
I opened it — and there he was.
Suitcase in hand.
Eyes soft.
Confidence intact.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he said.
“You always knew I’d come back.”
But then he stepped inside.
And froze.
Because the house wasn’t the same.
There were photos on the wall — not of him.
A second car in the driveway.
A calm in my voice he’d never heard before.
I smiled.
Not because I was happy to see him —
but because I finally realized something.
He didn’t come back for love.
He came back because he had nowhere else to go.
And this time, I was the one holding the door.
