NIA #2
That's the part that will sit with you long after this letter is gone.
Not that he cheated. But that he chose to.
More than once. More than you'll ever know.
You'll probably try to convince yourself it didn't mean anything.
That it was just sex, just a mistake, just a moment of weakness.
Maybe that's what you need to believe to sleep at night.
But I saw the version of him he never brought home to you.
The one that laughed without thinking about consequences.
The one that stayed up all night talking about things he never said out loud in that big house of yours.
The one that looked at me like I wasn't tied to all the expectations that came with loving him.
So yes, if you're reading this, I'm dead. But I wouldn't go out without letting you know something. I will always have one up on you. Because while you spent years trying to keep him, I had him without even trying.
And the truth?
A man only gives himself that freely to a woman once.
Take care of yourself, Nia. You're going to need that strength now more than ever.
— Jade with the LastLaugh
The kitchen stayed quiet long after I finished reading.
I stood there with the paper still open in my hands.
There was a time when something like this would have shattered me.
I would have felt it immediately. That sharp, ripping feeling in the chest that makes breathing feel like work.
I would have cried until my face hurt. I would have demanded answers.
Thrown things. Said words that didn't come from a calm place.
But standing there in that kitchen, I didn't feel any of that.
Not the way Jade probably imagined I would.
Instead, something else settled in my chest. Something quieter.
A kind of understanding. The first crack had started months ago.
The truth was I already knew. Maybe not the details. But the absence.
Jade thought she was delivering some kind of devastating revelation.
But all she really did was confirm what my heart had already prepared for.
I folded the letter up and put it back in the box.
My hands were steady. If I said I was surprised, I would be lying.
Yeah, it hurt, but honestly, not like it used to. If anything, it solidified my decision.
He'd clearly been taking time for him, so now I was about to take some time for me.
I carried the box upstairs first. Not to hide it.
Just to put the pictures back neatly so the kids would never accidentally see them if they came home early.
The hallway felt longer than usual as I walked down it.
Family photos hung on the walls. Birthday parties.
School events. Vacations. Smiling faces frozen in moments where everything looked whole.
I stopped in our bedroom doorway. The room looked exactly the same as it always did.
Our bed made. Jules' side of the dresser was cluttered with watches and loose change.
My side cleaner, simpler. I opened the closet and pulled down a small travel bag.
It felt strange packing without feeling rushed.
No anger pushing my movements or tears blurring my eyes. Just quiet decisions.
I packed enough clothes for about a week. A couple of comfortable outfits. My journal. My toothbrush. The small bottle of lavender oil my therapist once told me helped calm the nervous system. Halfway through packing, I sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment. My hands rested in my lap.
I thought about the girl I used to be. The one who fell in love with Jules before either of us really knew what life was going to demand from us.
Back then, love had felt simple. Like something strong enough to hold everything together.
But time had a way of stretching people into different shapes.
And somewhere along the way, I had learned how to survive inside the life we built instead of asking myself whether I was still happy living in it.
I zipped the bag. I made sure to leave the box open on the bed before leaving the house. I pulled out my phone and typed a text to Jules. "Pick up the kids today. There's something for you on the bed."
I grabbed my bag and walked out the front door. The air outside felt warm against my face. I stepped off the porch and got into my car. For a moment, I sat there with my hands resting on the steering wheel.
I started the engine. I pulled away from the house, and I wasn't concerned about looking back for the next week.
I ended up booking a room for a week at some fancy ass hotel near the airport that I used to hear Amina talk about all the time.
I remembered her mentioning it a few times after long flights, talking about the quiet rooms and the deep soaking tubs like they were some kind of small luxury that made being tired feel worth it.
At the time, I hadn't paid much attention.
Back then, I didn't think about places you went to be alone.
I had never really allowed myself that kind of space. Now I needed it.
I'd sent Chiana a text letting her know where I was and how to reach me before turning my phone off.
The message had been simple. No long explanation.
Just the name of the hotel and the room number, with a line that said I was safe and needed a few days to myself.
She replied almost immediately with a heart and a short message telling me she loved me.
I stared at the screen for a moment before turning the phone completely off.
I didn't want to be bothered. I didn't need anyone expressing their concern because they thought I was falling apart.
I wasn't falling apart. At least not in the way people usually imagined.
The hotel room smelled like clean linen and something faintly floral.
Everything in it looked untouched and symmetrical in that way hotel rooms did before you'd been in.
The bed was big. White comforter pulled tight across the mattress.
Pillows stacked neatly like someone expected you to disturb them.
The windows overlooked a stretch of highway and the airport runways in the distance.
Planes lifted slowly into the sky every few minutes, disappearing into low clouds.
For a long moment, I just stood there with my bag sitting on the luggage rack, looking around the room like I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.
Being alone felt strange. My life had always revolved around someone else.
The quiet in that room felt thick at first. I ordered a few bottles of wine and ran myself a bubble bath.
The water filled the tub slowly, steam rising in soft waves that fogged up the mirror across from the sink.
I poured more bubble bath than I probably needed, watching the foam spread across the surface like clouds drifting over water.
The bathroom lights were dim and warm. Everything about the space felt slower than the life I had left behind earlier that afternoon.
I undressed slowly before sliding down into the bath, letting the hot water wrap around me until my shoulders sank beneath the bubbles.
The warmth moved through my muscles slowly.
For a few minutes, I just closed my eyes and breathed.
I found myself sitting in the bath, relaxing, before opening my journal, which sat on the side of the tub.
That journal had followed me through a lot over the past couple of months.
Therapy had been the one thing I hadn't expected to help me as much as it did.
At first, writing felt awkward. Like I was trying to explain things to someone who couldn't answer me back.
But over time, the pages started holding things I didn't know how to say out loud. Now it felt natural to reach for it.
I picked up my pen and started writing. The page stayed blank for a long moment.
Because I had too much. Eventually, the words started coming slowly.
Most of the words I found myself putting on the paper were for Juliana.
Her name alone made something shift in my chest. Grief didn't leave you the way people thought it did.
It didn't pack its bags and disappear after enough time passed.
It settled inside you and never truly left.
I wanted her to know that I loved her, and I was sorry.
I told her things I used to whisper into her hair when she was little and half asleep in my arms. That she had changed my life.
That she had taught me things about patience and love that I didn't even know I was capable of learning.
I was thankful for the time I got to spend with her and everything I learned from being her mother.
Especially the hard parts. Because loving someone that deeply meant accepting that life didn't always give you as much time as you deserved.
I wrote slowly. The pen moving across the paper steady. The bathroom quiet except for the soft sound of water shifting when I moved in the tub. I was letting go of this grief now. Not forgetting it, Never that. But letting it stop controlling the shape of my life.
Later that night I found myself downstairs at the hotel bar working on my third margarita eating fried pickles and cheese sticks.
The bartender had long stopped asking me if I wanted another drink and had simply started replacing them once the glass got low enough.
The lime and salt sat heavy on my tongue, the burn of tequila warm in my chest in a way that softened the sharp edges of the day.