I did all that was right and true, by mine own hand and heart. At every turning, I did choose you-the ways I knew how.  At each hard-fought juncture, I pressed forward with steadfast soul, never faltering in my devotion. I dreamt not but of us, of what we might become, should we both labour in like measure. I gave my whole—more than whole—I gave mine utmost, mine undivided 101%. I asked of you no less, only that you should meet me with equal measure of heart and honour.

I did remain loyal through storm and silence, through shadowed doubt and trembling hope. I did weave visions of a future that bore your name as its sun and centre. Never could I conceive a world where your presence was not. I could not, would not, imagine life without your breath beside mine.  I look now upon lands we once travelled together, upon holidays that once held laughter and light, and I grieve—for you were once a companion of joy, a traveller of good cheer. I recall your moments of surrender, you yielding to my whims and wishes, and how it made my heart swell.

But the sweetness of those memories are but a thin veil of the sorrow that lurks beneath. For I dare not dwell too long upon the darkness, lest it consume me. The hurt. The rage. The doors slammed shut, the wood splintered and broken. The foul words and fouler silence. The loathing that did twist your visage. Never once did you ask, “How are you feeling?” Never once did you stoop to see the ruin you had wrought. 

The lies you buried. The truths you did not speak. And when I did, in mercy and hope, withdraw the Protection order, you did not not say, “She desires to heal the marriage,” but rather,  “She had finally come to her senses.” What cruel misreading of my soul that still dared to hope.. What grievous disdain for my heart’s cry that only ever asked to be met. 

Tell me—was I too strong to be pitied? Did my refusal to bow mark me as insolent? Was my no an invitation for trespass? Are my tears dismissed as crocodilian, a spectacle to mock? Did my defiance of injustice mark me as rude?  Is my sorrow but a play?  Was my trembling body just theatre? Does my past—my flaws, my fire—render me unworthy of compassion? Shall I bear forever the lash of judgment because I once erred in my opinions?

“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” wrote T.S. Eliot —But I—I have measured mine in grief. In all the quiet hurts, all the unanswered cries, all the nights spent speaking to shadows. Each moment, each slight, each cry into the void, unanswered. My strength did not protect me—it made me target. Mine own love did not deliver us—it was trodden underfoot, again and yet again, until but frayed threads remained. I hungered for tenderness, loved past reason, forgave beyond wisdom, hoped past endurance. What more could I have done?

I did not deserve your abuse, nor their cruelty. Nor your silence. Nor your disdain. Nor the slow erosion of my worth.

And yet I had loved you. With the kind of love that burned through bone.

There are nights still, when mine eyes fall upon the house—once bought in faith, to cradle our future, our memories, a family yet to be—and I am undone. The chambers echo with silence where laughter was once to dwell. The hearth stands cold, where love was meant to warm. And I weep. I weep—not with quiet tears, but with the kind that wring the soul, where the breast heaves and the breath falters. A wailing. For what was once sacred have been shattered, and the covenant once made in hope now lies in ruin. My heart knows no rest, only the ache of love undone. Mine eyes spill sorrow that words dare not contain. “I cannot live without my soul.” — Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Had not the past five years borne weight? Were the years we shared not meant to mean something? Did we not strive, hand in hand, to build from strength to strength? What sin so grave had I committed, that all our toil did not forge might—but misery? That each step taken was not toward home, but toward rupture?

Instead of sanctuary, we have reaped hurt. Instead of unity, resentment. Instead of truth, deceit. Instead of healing, the inheritance of generational wounds passed down. And where there should have been wisdom, there was ignorance. Where there could have been mercy, there was cruelty.

“Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts?” — King Lear

Tell me, was it fate or folly that brought us here?

When shall the hurt be stilled? Perchance never. Perchance the wound remain, a scar upon the soul. But know this—I did love, deeply and without guile. I bore pain in silence. And when, by God’s grace, shall we all finally rise from the valley of guilt.