I woke up.
Did I fall asleep, or was it like someone switched me off, and I collapsed face-first into the pillow? I’m not sure. Maybe this was all some bizarre, psychedelic dream, and now I’ll wake up, and everything will be back to normal. But no, I didn’t wake up in another reality. I woke up in our bed. Alone. Empty. With a cold spot on the left—where he was always supposed to be.
Nothing has changed. For six years, he’s been coming and going—“earning,” “saving,” “working for us.” And I’ve been here—cooking dinners, yelling at the kid, taking care of my dad and myself—every single day. But now he’s gone. And now it feels… official.
The morning started like a script. A pile of chores. Coffee. Get the kid ready for school. Mop the floor. Check if Dad took his meds. And most importantly—don’t look in the mirror.
Because there I am. The real me. With swollen eyes, a red nose, and this strange, half-hysterical look that says, “Are you seriously still holding it together, Maria?” And for what? For who?
I made my coffee black today. No milk. No hope. Maybe it’ll wake up my brain. Maybe something will finally make sense. I opened the fridge—and there it was. The cake. The same one we bought yesterday because “Dad’s coming home.” It was a whole production—blowing up balloons, the kid drawing a card, me even doing my hair. Yeah. Picture-perfect family.
I grabbed that cake, sat down on a chair, and dug into it with such ferocity, as if it were a triumph. And no, it actually was a triumph. Because I ate the cake alone, and I didn’t care. Not because I’ve given up on myself. But because I’ve stopped trying to prove anything to anyone.
And as I swallowed the last bite, washing it down with coffee, I said out loud to myself:
— Maria, you’re not dead. And that means you’ve already won.
Coffee finished, cake devoured—that means I’ve got the energy and drive for today, no doubt. And a couple extra pounds on my hips? They’re definitely not scarier than a broken heart. I’ll survive this too!
I was just finishing the last piece of cake when my daughter came out.
Her hair a mess, wearing her kitty pajamas, eyes still sleepy.
— Mom, where’s Dad? — she asks.
A second. A breath. A smile on my face, as if nothing happened.
— He stayed over at a friend’s. Helping with some repairs, probably coming back late.
She looks at me, like she senses something. Eight years old isn’t three.
She’s understood things for a while now, even when she doesn’t say it.
I got her ready for school, made breakfast, packed a snack in her lunchbox.
Such a good girl. My girl.
But in my head, the same thought keeps looping: “What will I tell her if he doesn’t come back?”
But stop. Not now.
I saw her off—and then silence. Finally.
I went to the kitchen, picked up my phone, opened the chat with Natalie.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
What do I write? That she’ll just tell me again, “Maria, I warned you”?
I already know that.
She’ll try to lift me up, motivate me, send voice messages where she scolds and loves me all at once.
And me… I don’t even know if I want to hear it.
Maybe I just want him to change his mind.
To come back and say:
— I’m sorry, I was an idiot. Let’s forget this ever happened.
But I remember last night. I remember it too well.
— Maria, I’ve been thinking… we’re more like roommates now.
— What?! That’s what you call 15 years of marriage?!
— Well… you’re always busy, I’m always on the road…
— You chose to leave! You did!
— I’m tired. I don’t know what I want. I think I’m depressed.
— So you decided to ‘not burden us’?
— I don’t want to hurt you…
— But you already are. And our daughter. She’s not blind!
And I remember just standing there.
Silent. Not even having the strength to cry.
Because I’ve already cried it all out.
In my head, there was only one thought:
“How many times did people tell me: don’t marry him, Maria. He’s not your person.”
But I convinced myself: family is everything.
That a child needs to grow up in a family with a dad.
That holidays, gifts, “good morning, honey,” all of it—matters.
And now I’m alone. As I’ve always been, really.
Only now, without the illusions.
I took the last sip of coffee.
Looked out the window. It’s spring out there. The sun is shining, birds are singing.
But inside me—there’s a storm.
I’ll go outside, I think. Get some fresh air.
Maybe I’ll text Natalie. Maybe she’ll tell me again:
“Yeah, Maria. You’ve fallen. But now—get up. Because I’m not gonna pity you.”
And you know what? I need that.