I was 18 when I said “I do.” Bright-eyed, naïve, and convinced that love alone could carry us through whatever storms came our way. For a while, it felt like it might. But what no one tells you when you’re that young is that people grow and sometimes, they don’t grow together. By 25, I was not the same girl who wore that white dress, and he was not the same boy who stood beside me at the altar. Instead of growing into each other, we grew apart.
It wasn’t that we didn’t try. We did. I’ll never hold it over his head or mine that we didn’t fight for what we had. But when something is broken beyond repair, love alone can’t fix it. There were lonely nights where we sat in the same room but felt miles apart. There were small moments the ones you never think you’ll miss that slipped away without us noticing. The laughter got quieter. The touches became less frequent. And when life started “lifing,” instead of pulling us closer, it pushed us to opposite ends of the shore.
When it ended, people wanted someone to blame. I took most of the heat. Family who had predicted we’d fail before we even began. Friends who didn’t understand. People who believed leaving meant giving up. It didn’t matter that we both had a part in what happened when the dust settled, I was the one standing in the line of fire. But staying would have been the real betrayal, because I would have been betraying myself, my kids, and any chance at real happiness.
The older generations don’t always understand that. They were taught to endure, no matter what. But I believe there’s courage in walking away from what no longer fits you, even if the world sees it as failure. Because I was miserable. I was shrinking. And in staying, I was teaching my kids the wrong lesson that love means losing yourself. I wanted them to see something different.
The thing is, love didn’t die. I don’t believe love ever really does. It changes appearances. It transforms. The way I love him now is not the way I loved him then, but it’s still there in its own way. It’s in the way I look at our children and see the best parts of both of us. It’s in the way I want him to be happy, to succeed, to find peace even if it’s not with me. It’s in the way we work together to raise our kids, even if we don’t always get it right. Co-parenting isn’t easy. There are days we clash. He tells me I come off “bitchy,” and maybe I do, though I never intend to. I see the hurt in him, the heaviness he carries, and some part of me still wishes I could take it away. But that’s no longer my role.
We failed as a couple, but we did not fail as parents. We tried to fix what was broken, but it was beyond repair. And that’s okay. Because the love that started this story is still here it just wears a different face now. It’s softer. Quieter. Rooted in respect for what we once had and in gratitude for the two beautiful lives we brought into the world. Love doesn’t have an expiration date. It just changes shape.
-Masked Mom
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