It stretched longer than it should have - the push and pull, the tears, the indecision, the thick air of spiritual battles fought. After years of my knees wearing out the bedroom floor, an unexpected text message waited on my notifications while I was preoccupied teaching students how to stir their candles with calculated patience.It started as, "Hello. I just want to say.." It was followed by a "I feel God is speaking to me to finally courageously say this.." and continued with "I know this is far too late now but I'm so sorry." It was a swift message - concise and straightforward. While text messages are generally not a good way to offer an apology, I understand it's the best that our situation could muster.
It prompted me to revisit the prayers I prayed over the years and to dialogue with God. After replying, he followed up with another apology and a declaration that God is still at work with him. It was going okay and it felt sincere until a line took me aback - "I'm not sure if this matters but I forgive you." He then continued with, "I harnessed a lot of unforgiveness and anger in my heart and I need to finally release them all out." Here I was, thinking that this is a well-thought, genuine and a heartfelt apology - a turning point finally, to him learning accountability and stepping up to the plate.
The words were strung together politely enough, but underneath, there was a shift in focus that felt off. The line, “I’m not sure if this matters but I forgive you,” sounded less like an extension of grace and more like a subtle repositioning — as if I had wronged him in equal measure and now he was granting me the gift of his release. It reframed the dynamic in a way that diluted the weight of his own actions.
Then, “I harnessed a lot of unforgiveness and anger in my heart and I need to finally release them all out.” On the surface, it read like self-awareness, but the phrasing felt oddly performative, as though the emphasis was on showcasing his personal growth rather than sitting in the reality of the hurt he had caused. The moment stopped being about acknowledging my pain and became about narrating his own redemption. And maybe to some that sounds noble, but to me, in the context of everything that had happened, it felt like a quiet reclaiming of control over the story.
Couldn’t help but notice the irony — how someone could say “I know this is far too late now” yet never once try to bridge the gap that time created. No follow-through, no pursuit, no real effort to make things right. It was a farewell wrapped as an apology, spoken not to rebuild, but to unburden.
In the end, it wasn’t the delay that hurt the most. It was the realization that even in saying sorry, he still wasn’t willing to stay.
Eventually, he said he’d reply after work — as though the conversation had been mine to initiate. The entirety of that brief exchange left me momentarily unsure — but when he said he’d message again after work and never did, it brought with it a quiet, unexpected clarity: this was closure. Not dramatic, not grand, but enough to mark the end of a chapter I hadn’t realized was still open. And with that realization, my heart—at long last—felt free.
Free not just from waiting, not just from wondering. Free to breathe again without bracing for the next message. Free to stop rehearsing explanations in my head. Free to stop hoping someone would someday rise to the role they were never ready for.
My heart felt free to heal deeper. To be whole without seeking validation from someone who couldn’t choose me fully. It felt free to open itself again — not in desperation, but in courage. Free to imagine love that is safe, soft, mutual. Free to believe that maybe, just maybe, there is a kind of love that doesn’t come with constant waiting or confusion, and free to finally let love in, again.
And most of all, I felt free to return to myself — the version of me that isn’t constantly second-guessing her worth, but walking forward with quiet strength, knowing that what was let go wasn’t meant to stay.
Because freedom doesn’t always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes, it comes quietly — through unread messages, unsent replies, and an ache that finally stops asking questions. And in that silence, you realize: you’ve been released not just from a person, but from a version of yourself that kept waiting to be chosen.
Somehow, in that final quiet moment, I also found it in my heart to release that chapter — not with resentment, not with bitterness, but with a gentle sigh of surrender. To no longer long for reconciliation. To stop secretly hoping that one day, he would become who I needed him to be. To finally, truly, forgive him — not for him, but for me. It felt like a signal from him to finally let go. A closing gesture wrapped in apology and unfinished sentences.
As a final act of love, I chose to let him go — to release him fully into the life he longed to live. Even if that meant a life where he would never be a father to my child, a partner to me, nor the husband I once hoped for. We gave him the freedom to chase a future unburdened by the roles he never embraced. And I hope that one day, when he finds himself in a beautiful home, surrounded by a wife who loves him and children who adore him, he might remember: that life was made possible because my son and I surrendered what we once thought was ours, so he could have what he believed was meant for him.
Forgiveness is not always a grand gesture. Sometimes, it’s a quiet whisper: “You don’t owe me anything anymore.” And in saying that, I realized — neither did I.
And maybe - no I meant, certainly, - that’s the kindness of God, too — not always rescuing us from heartbreak, but gently pulling us out of places we weren’t meant to dwell in forever. I prayed for years - I know it was close to impossible but I hoped not in what I saw then but in the power God holds. Not in what I can see, not what I cannot do, but what God can. It still ended, and there was no miracle to be had.
I bear witness that God does work behind the scenes and that even closed doors are blessings too. "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose." At least today, I rest not in defeat, but in the faith that God has better plans for me, and most importantly, Lukas.✨
