I planned a romantic trip for just the two of us. A beautiful mountain resort, a cozy spa, everything included. I packed my bag with a smile, my heart full of hope and excitement. I even folded his favorite flannel shirt and added it to the suitcase, thinking how surprised he’d be.
But the next morning, when I picked up my suitcase and walked toward him, he glanced up and asked, “You… were coming?”
That’s when everything shattered. It felt like someone had poured a bucket of freezing water over my head.
The night before, I sat curled up on the edge of the couch. My legs were tucked under me, and I was mindlessly scrolling through my phone. My thumb moved quickly, but my eyes were slow, tired.
Then one picture made me stop.
It was Mandy—my old college friend—standing on a sunny beach in Florida. She held a pink cocktail in one hand, her toes buried in the golden sand, laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world.
The next post was from Kate. She was hiking up a foggy mountain with her husband. They had big backpacks, walking sticks, and those red, happy cheeks people get when they’ve been breathing in crisp mountain air. The caption said, “Disconnect to reconnect.”
That one stung.
Then there was Amy. She was bundled up at a ski lodge, holding a cup of coffee while her kids smiled in matching puffy coats. Her husband stood behind her with his arm wrapped around her shoulders.
They looked like a holiday postcard.
I stared down at my own profile. My last few photos were embarrassing.
One was me, squinting in the sun next to our flower bed. Another showed me holding a tray of burned cookies. And the third? It was this same couch. Me. Same spot. Same tired face. Doing nothing.
I was forty. Forty. And the biggest trip I’d taken this year was to the outlet mall—just to grab jeans that were 60% off.
I turned to Mark, who sat beside me, buried in his usual couch dent. He wore that faded football shirt again. One hand was in a chip bag, and the other held the TV remote like it was super-glued there.
“Hey, Mark?” I asked, leaning toward him.
He didn’t look away from the screen. “Huh?”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to go somewhere next week? Just us?”
He grunted, “Why?” Eyes still locked on the game.
“To spend time together. We hardly even talk anymore. Everything’s either about bills or groceries.”
He glanced at me—just briefly—then shrugged. “We live together, Jen. Isn’t that enough? Don’t start with this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense,” I said softly. “I want—”
“I’m watching the game, Jennifer. Please.”
And just like that, he shut the door on the conversation.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I stood up quietly, walked down the hallway, and sat at my desk. I opened my laptop. My fingers trembled slightly as I typed.
If he didn’t want to dream with me, fine. I’d dream by myself.
Maybe… I’d even go without him.
The next evening around six, I heard the familiar slam of the back door. Mark walked in, boots thudding against the tile. He tossed his keys on the table, then dropped into his chair with a loud sigh, like he had just returned from war.
“Where’s dinner?” he mumbled, rubbing his neck like the world owed him something.
I wiped my hands on a towel and brought him his plate—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans.
He dug in without a single thank you. Just chewing, chewing, clinking fork on plate.
I sat across from him, heart thudding. I couldn’t help the smile that crept onto my face.
“What’s with the grin?” he asked with a mouthful.
I reached into the drawer beside me, pulled out the two tickets I’d printed the night before, and slid them across the table.
He stopped chewing. Picked them up. His eyes narrowed as he read.
“What’s this?”
“A surprise,” I said, proud and a little nervous.
“A week at a mountain resort. Just for us. There’s a spa, nature trails, a heated pool. Everything’s included.”
He raised an eyebrow. “All included? Even towels?”
I let out a small laugh. “Yes, Mark. Even towels. I checked.”
He gave a short chuckle. “Well, now that’s a surprise. Thanks, babe. That’s real thoughtful.”
“I thought it’s just what we need,” I said, leaning on the table. “A little air. A little change. Maybe some time together, like before.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just what I needed.”
The way he said it… something felt off. But I pushed the feeling away.
I ran to the bedroom, heart fluttering, already imagining snow-covered trees, warm cocoa, and maybe even falling in love again.
The next morning, the sky was soft gray. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, putting on mascara carefully. I curled my hair into soft waves, nothing too fancy—just enough to feel beautiful.
I wore my favorite deep red sweater—the one that made me look alive. My best earrings sparkled just enough. I even put on the good scarf I’d been saving for a “special day.”
Then I heard it. The car engine growling in the driveway.
He was warming up the car. That tiny gesture filled me with hope. Maybe this would change things.
I grabbed my suitcase, purse, and scarf, and hurried outside.
The cold morning air kissed my cheeks. My heels tapped quickly on the driveway.
“Wait!” I called out, waving. “I just need two more minutes—”
He turned, confused. “Two more minutes for what?”
“For the trip!” I said, lifting my suitcase. “The tickets, remember?”
He looked at me like I was speaking a different language.
“You… were coming?”
I froze. “Of course I was. I booked the trip for us. Both of us.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “You never said that. I thought you were giving me a break. A chance to breathe.”
“A chance to breathe?” I nearly laughed, but it came out broken and bitter. “You spend every day on that couch breathing without me.”
He shrugged. “I already invited someone else. Plans are set.”
I stared at him. “Who?”
He didn’t answer.
He just got into the car, shut the door, and backed out of the driveway.
I stood there, frozen. The wind tugged at my scarf. My suitcase leaned on its wheels. My mascara started to run.
But I wasn’t finished.
I wiped my eyes, stood tall, and got into my own car.
I was going to find out who he was traveling with.
I followed him for half an hour. Stayed a few cars behind, turning when he turned, stopping when he did. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly they ached.
I imagined her—this mystery woman. She’d be young, of course. Skinny jeans, perfect nails, loud laugh. Probably posted “living my best life” selfies and wore fake lashes longer than her eyelashes.
I was ready to see her. Ready to cause a scene.
But I wasn’t ready for what I actually saw.
Mark pulled into a quiet neighborhood—neat little houses, trimmed lawns, a porch swing or two.
He stopped at a white house with green shutters and honked.
I parked across the street and waited.
Then the front door opened.
And out walked… his mother.
She waved like he was picking her up for a school dance. Smiling softly, purse in hand. She climbed into the passenger seat like it was perfectly normal.
I stared, stunned. My heart pounded. My jaw clenched.
Of all the betrayals… he chose his mama over me?
I remembered all those early fights when we got married. How hard it was to pull him out of her house. How every Sunday she cooked for him like he was still five. How she called him her “baby boy” even when he turned thirty-eight.
And now he picked her for the trip. Not me.
That was my breaking point.
I didn’t follow them. I pulled over, took a deep breath, and called the resort.
“Please cancel both reservations,” I told the woman on the phone.
She asked, “Are you sure?”
I was more than sure.
I hung up, started the car, and drove home. My hands were steady now. My heart was turning to ice.
Two days later, Mark returned.
I watched him from the kitchen window. He got out of the car like nothing happened, dragging his suitcase behind him. Same coat. Same smug look.
He walked up to the door, probably thinking things would just go back to normal.
But he stopped when he saw the note I had taped to the door.
His eyes moved slowly across the words:
“The locks are changed. Your key won’t work. I hope you packed warm socks—Mama’s house gets drafty. I’ll send the divorce papers soon. –Jennifer.”
He tried the doorknob. He knocked. First gently. Then louder.
I didn’t answer.
Inside, I lit a candle. The glow warmed the kitchen.
I poured myself a glass of cranberry juice and opened my laptop.
I pulled up the same resort website.
But this time, I booked just one ticket.
Only one.
For me.
Same view. Same snow. Same quiet spa.
But it wasn’t about saving anything now.
It was about starting something.
Something mine.
Because for the first time in a very long time, I finally understood who I needed to be with.
Me. Just me.
And for once, that felt like real peace.
