I thought I knew my wife, Sarah, after 12 years, but four months ago, I found out she’d gone on a vacation without me. The lie hurt, but the reason she excluded me was a wake-up call. I’m Mike, 40, and it started on a Tuesday. Sarah was packing for a work retreat with her coworker, Amy, in Coastville. “Just a quick trip,” she said, brushing off my offer to drive her. She kissed me and left. I didn’t suspect a thing.
Two days later, I saw Amy at the grocery store, picking out bananas. “Back from Coastville?” I asked. She looked puzzled. “I’ve been home all week,” she said. My stomach twisted. Sarah had lied. That night, I checked her laptop and found a booking for a solo stay at a beach resort. Was she cheating? I drove there at dawn, the resort buzzing with happy couples. I found Sarah by the pool, relaxed in a new dress, reading a book.
“Amy says hi,” I said, sitting down. Her face fell. “I needed to be alone,” she admitted, eyes wet. “I’m tired, Mike. I plan every meal around your picky eating—always burgers, plain pasta. I wanted to enjoy food without guilt.” I was stunned. “This is about food?” “It’s about freedom,” she said. “I can’t keep shrinking for you.” I remembered refusing her favorite Indian restaurant, sticking to my comfort zone. She’d tried talking, but I brushed it off.
Her words hit hard. I’d trapped her in my fears of new foods. “I can change,” I said, but she doubted me. “I need time,” she said, packing up. I drove home, grabbing a burger, the taste empty. Sarah moved out, and we divorced quietly. Now, I’m in our silent house, eating a basic salad—a small step. Sarah’s dating a foodie, laughing at markets, truly happy. It stings, but I see why.
I wish I’d tried harder, stepped out of my safe zone. Love means growing, not limiting. I’m trying new foods, hoping to be better. It’s too late for us, but not for me. Would I have fought harder? I’ll always wonder if a bite of her sushi could’ve saved us.
