I planned the perfect romantic getaway—just for the two of us. A peaceful mountain resort with everything included. A spa, cozy cabins, fresh air. I even made sure the place had extra-plush towels. I packed my suitcase with a smile on my face and hope swelling in my chest. I believed, with all my heart, this trip would help us feel close again.
But the next morning, as I grabbed my suitcase and stepped toward the door, Mark looked at me like I was a ghost. His eyes narrowed, and he said, “You… were coming?”
Just like that, it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of freezing water on my heart.
The night before, I had sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked under me, phone in hand. I was mindlessly scrolling, my thumb swiping fast while my eyes lagged behind. I wasn’t really looking for anything. Maybe just a distraction.
Then I saw it. A picture that made me stop cold.
Mandy—my old college roommate—was sipping a bright pink cocktail beside the bluest ocean I’d ever seen. She had her sunglasses pushed up on her head, her toes buried in white sand, and she was laughing like her whole life was just sunshine and freedom.
The next photo hit me even harder.
Kate was hiking up a foggy mountain trail with her husband. They looked like a couple in a commercial—red cheeks, cozy jackets, backpacks slung over their shoulders. Her caption read: “Disconnect to reconnect.” I felt that one like a sharp pinch. My chest ached.
Then I saw Amy. She was wrapped in layers, standing at a snowy ski lodge with her kids in matching coats. They looked like models in a winter catalog. She held a steaming coffee mug and smiled, her husband’s arm snug around her shoulder.
My stomach sank.
I clicked over to my own profile. The most recent picture? Me standing by a flower bed, squinting into the sun like I didn’t know what I was doing there.
Another one—me in the kitchen, holding a tray of burnt cookies.
And then, another—me on this same exact couch. Wearing the same sweater. Looking… tired.
Forty. I was forty years old, and the biggest adventure I’d had this year was driving to the outlet mall for a pair of jeans on clearance.
I turned toward Mark, who was sitting in his usual dent on the couch, wearing that faded T-shirt he’d had since college. One hand deep in a greasy chip bag, the other clutching the remote like it was part of his body.
“Hey, Mark?” I said, my voice gentle.
He didn’t look away from the TV. “Huh?”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to go somewhere next week? Just the two of us?”
“Why?” His eyes stayed locked on the game.
“To spend time together. We barely talk anymore. Every conversation is about bills or dinner. I miss us.”
He gave me a quick glance—barely a second.
“We live together, Jen. That’s enough, isn’t it? Don’t start with this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense,” I whispered. “I want—”
“I’m watching the game, Jennifer. Please.”
He cut me off like I was background noise.
I didn’t say another word. I just stood up, walked down the hall, and sat at my desk.
My hands were shaking as I opened my laptop.
If Mark wouldn’t dream with me… I’d dream alone.
And maybe, just maybe—I’d go without him.
The next day, around 6 p.m., I heard the back door creak open. Mark stomped in, boots loud on the tile.
He tossed his keys onto the table like always and collapsed into his chair with a grunt.
“Where’s dinner?” he asked, rubbing his neck like he was exhausted from saving the world.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel, brought over his plate—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, all hot and fresh.
He dug in like a man who’d never heard of gratitude. No “thank you.” Just chewing and clinking.
I sat across from him, heart racing with a strange mix of nerves and hope.
I couldn’t hold back my grin.
“What’s with the smile?” he mumbled, mouth full.
I reached into the drawer and pulled out two printed tickets. I slid them across the table.
He stopped chewing.
He picked up the papers and squinted. “What’s this?”
“A surprise,” I said, soft but proud. “A week at a mountain resort. For us. There’s a pool, hiking trails, even a spa. Everything’s included.”
His eyebrow twitched. “All included? Like… even towels?”
I actually laughed a little. “Yes, Mark. Even towels.”
He gave a short chuckle. “Well, now that’s a surprise. Thanks, babe. That’s real thoughtful.”
“I figured it’s just what we need. A little break. A little us-time.”
He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just what I needed.”
There was something off about the way he said it. Something I didn’t catch at the time.
But I let it go.
I ran to the bedroom, heart pounding like I was seventeen. I imagined snowflakes falling, us holding hands, maybe sharing hot chocolate by a fire. Maybe we’d even fall in love again.
The next morning, the sky was soft and gray. Perfect for a cozy start.
I stood in front of the mirror, brushing mascara onto my lashes. I curled my hair into gentle waves—just enough to feel pretty but not overdone.
I wore my deep red sweater—the one that always brought color to my cheeks—and my favorite earrings dangled as I moved.
Then I heard it—the familiar growl of the car starting outside.
He was warming it up for us. That tiny gesture wrapped around my heart like a warm scarf.
Maybe this was the beginning of something new.
I grabbed my suitcase, my purse, my good scarf—the one I only wore on special days—and stepped outside.
The air was crisp. My heels clicked on the driveway as I called out, “Wait! I just need two more minutes—”
Mark turned, one hand on the driver’s door. He looked at me, confused.
“Two more minutes for what?”
“For the trip,” I said, holding up my suitcase. “The tickets—”
He tilted his head. “You… were coming?”
I stopped walking. “Of course I was. I got us both tickets.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “You never said they were for you too. I thought you were… giving me a break. A chance to breathe.”
I almost laughed, but the sound that came out was sharp and broken.
“A chance to breathe?” I echoed. “You spend every single day on that couch breathing without me.”
He shrugged. “I already invited someone else. Plans are set.”
My voice dropped. “Who?”
He didn’t answer.
He just got into the car, shut the door, and backed out like I was invisible.
I stood there frozen, wind tugging at my scarf, mascara starting to sting.
But I wasn’t done.
I wiped my eyes, lifted my suitcase, and got into my car.
I was going to find out who he was traveling with.
I followed him. Thirty minutes of gripping the steering wheel, two cars behind him, watching every turn. My mind ran wild.
She’d be younger, of course. Perfect skin, perfect teeth. Maybe fake lashes and long nails. Probably posted selfies with captions like “#LivingMyBestLife.”
I was ready. Ready to confront her. To say everything I needed to say. I had no fear left.
But nothing prepared me for what I saw.
Mark turned into a quiet neighborhood. Neat lawns, small houses, wind chimes on porches.
He slowed down and pulled into a driveway beside a little white house with green shutters.
He honked once.
And then… the front door opened.
Out walked his mother.
Yes. His mother.
She smiled like it was the night of prom, purse in hand, coat zipped up.
She climbed into the passenger seat like they’d planned this all along.
My jaw dropped. My hands shook.
Of all people… he chose her?
Memories rushed in. How he’d dragged his feet moving out of her house after we got married. How he still went to her house every Sunday for lunch. How she called him her “baby boy” even though he was nearly forty.
And now, he was choosing a week with her over a week with me.
That was the final straw.
I didn’t follow them.
I pulled over, called the resort, and said calmly, “Please cancel both reservations.”
The woman asked, “Are you sure?”
I was more than sure.
Two days later, he came home.
I watched him through the window. Same old coat. Same torn sleeve. Same “nothing happened” attitude.
He walked up to the door, probably expecting everything to be exactly how he left it.
But he stopped.
There was a note taped to the door. He read it slowly.
“The locks are changed. Your key won’t work. I hope you packed warm socks—Mama’s house can be drafty. I’ll send the divorce papers soon. – Jennifer.”
He stood there, stunned.
He tried the doorknob. Knocked a little. Then louder.
I didn’t answer.
Inside, I lit a candle on the kitchen counter. The soft glow filled the room.
I poured a glass of cranberry juice, sat down with my laptop, and opened the same hotel website.
But this time?
I booked one ticket.
Just one.
Same resort. Same view. Same spa.
But now, it wasn’t about fixing a broken marriage.
It was about starting something new.
Something for me.
For the first time in years, I remembered who I needed most.
Me. Just me.
And for once, that felt like real peace.
