At first, I thought he’d gone to grab coffee. But his side of the bed was cold. His suitcase — the one we’d just unpacked after the reception — was missing.
My stomach dropped.
I called him. Straight to voicemail.
Then I saw it. An envelope on the dresser. My name written in his careful handwriting.
My hands shook as I opened it.
I’m sorry. I thought I could do this. I thought I could choose you without losing everything else. But I can’t. My mom is right — I’m not strong enough to live between two wars. You deserve someone braver than me.
I couldn’t breathe.
This wasn’t about his mother anymore.
This was about him.
He hadn’t defended me at lunch — he’d just told me to ignore her.
He hadn’t confronted her after the “charity case” comment — he’d changed the subject.
And at the wedding, when she cursed our marriage in front of everyone, he hadn’t stood up.
He’d just squeezed my hand.
I thought that was solidarity.
It was hesitation.
My phone buzzed.
A text from him.
I’ll handle the annulment. I’m so sorry.
No fight.
No conversation.
No chance.
Just surrender.
I sat there in my wedding dress from the night before, staring at the letter.
His mother had warned me I’d regret it.
But she was wrong.
I didn’t regret marrying him.
I regretted marrying someone who loved me quietly but feared confrontation loudly.
Weeks later, I heard he’d moved back home.
Back under her roof.
Back under her rules.
And that’s when it finally hit me:
She didn’t ruin my marriage.
He did.
Because a man who lets someone else decide his life was never ready to build one with me.
I folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope, and slid my ring off.
Not because she won.
But because I refused to fight for a man who wouldn’t fight for me.
