I assumed Derek was kidding when he suggested it. Living apart for 30 days? Someone does that? But he presented it sincerely and passionately like a huge romantic endeavor. “A reset,” he said. “Time to miss each other, fall in love.”
First, I resisted. I felt we were okay—not perfect, but not broken. But he persisted. FaceTime, check in, we’ll chat daily. Lisa, this isn’t a split. A tune-up.”
So I gave in. I found a short-term apartment a few streets away, packed a suitcase, and kissed him farewell like we were in a rom-com instead of ending a five-year marriage. He smiled at the doorway and waved me off like I was on vacation, not deported.
The early days were calm. Too quiet. No good morning messages, hilarious memes, or dinner requests. I convinced myself he was giving me “space,” as promised. Maybe he needed it more than I thought.
Work, reading, and rewatching programs kept me busy. We spoke awkwardly, like two colleagues attempting to be pleasant in a team meeting. He usually finished with something lovely, like “Just wait till our reunion” or “You’ll see, this will make us stronger.”
I clung to those words for survival.
The call followed.
Rainy Saturday night. My phone rang after I poured a glass of wine and debated rewatching The Holiday or Gone Girl for the umpteenth time. Our neighbor Mary. The kind, retired, bird-watching Mary who lived next door for decades cooked lemon treats for every holiday.
Please return home, Lisa. Now,” she said, without greeting or preamble.
My stomach twisted. “What’s wrong?”
A lady is in your bedroom. She was visible through the window. Blonde. She’s going through your drawers.”
Not even hung up. Dropping my champagne, I rushed with my keys.
Though just eight minutes away, the home seemed like a hundred miles. A burglar? My mind raced. Friend of Derek? A misunderstanding?
I drove up without stopping. Light was off on the porch. No movement. The rain soaked my jacket as I crept around the back, pulse racing. I could see the bedroom window with half-closed curtains, but Mary wasn’t lying. A slow, methodical person pulled something from the bedside drawer inside.
I entered unlocked from the back.
“Hello?” My call was louder than anticipated. “Derek?”
No reply. Soft drawer shutting thump upstairs.
I ascended the stairs like glass, every creak a bullet. I stopped at the top. Bedroom door was ajar. I pressed lightly.
She halted when she spotted me—a tall, platinum blonde lady in her late 20s carrying one of my scarves. My favorite scarf.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snapped.
She dropped it. “I thought you’d leave.”
My jaw tensed. “Gone? “Why would I leave?”
She stuttered, looking at the ensuite. Derek said you were separated.
Separated?
Derek left the restroom with a towel around his waist and big eyes like a deer in headlights before I could respond.
“Lisa.”
“Derek.”
The room seemed 10 times smaller. Blood screamed in my ears.
I didn’t shout. Nothing was thrown. I stood dumbfounded, unable to move.
“You said this was a reset,” I muttered. This was for us, you said.”
He glanced down, guilty. “I didn’t plan this. It simply happened.”
Didn’t plan?” Cold and bitter, I laughed. “You moved me out of our house to bring her in.”
“I didn’t move her in,” he responded hurriedly. “She was just visiting.”
Woman—girl—looked at me like she was trying to vanish.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, passing me and down the steps.
I stared at Derek with our wedding picture crooked on the wall behind him.
“You know the worst part?” I said. “I believed you. I justified this idiotic ‘reset’ to pals. I thought you tried.”
He looked pitiful, wet from the shower, making up excuses.
“I was unhappy,” he remarked. I didn’t know how to tell,”
“So you lied,” I stated plainly. “Coward.”
That night, I departed. Permanent.
The tale changes here.
Three weeks later, I picked up my remaining items. I was composed. I had a lawyer, therapy, and a spin class I’d been putting off forever. Derek was absent, which was excellent.
A little velvet box I didn’t identify was in the closet while packing.
I opened.
Inside was a ring. Not my. A gargantuan heart-shaped diamond ring, not an engagement ring. Totally tacky.
There was a note.
We both needed a second opportunity. Love, Derek.”
Dated two weeks before the “reset.”
Then I realized he planned it. The move. The split. All of it. He wasn’t attempting to love me again. He wanted to leave the marriage without seeming awful.
Yet he underestimated me.
I photographed everything—the ring, the message, and the hotel expenses I discovered in his office drawer from before our split. My lawyer took them and I left with more than my dignity.
Derek was dishonest and clumsy.
Six months later, divorce completed, settlement in my favor, and Derek lost his job owing to a “personal conduct” clause breach after his affair became office gossip. Sleeping with a young intern while married hurts company morale.
As for me?
Moved cities. Fresh start. My payout allowed me to launch a modest design studio, my ambition. It was peaceful, joyful, and surprising—I met someone new. Kind. Steady. Honest.
Now I see I never lost anything. I was released.
If your companion recommends “a break” or “a reset,” listen. It might be reconnecting or a cowardly departure tactic disguised as a second opportunity.
If that day arrives, may Mary be your neighbor.
That night, would you have gone home?
If this tale moved you, like, share, and tell me what you would have done.
