My husband of 12 years forced me into an open marriage. “Agree, or I’ll divorce you,” he said. I loved him, so I agreed.
Then one of my partners sent flowers to our house on our anniversary: “To the woman who makes me believe in love again.” Mark went pale, snapped, and the fight began—not just about the flowers, but everything. He wanted freedom, but clearly expected me to fail.
I met Daniel at a wine tasting. Calm, kind, attentive. Slowly, I realized I’d been starved for connection. When Mark discovered my relationship, he became possessive, proving he never imagined I’d be wanted.
After Daniel ended things, I cried for hours. Mark apologized, but it was too late. I had grown. I wanted love, respect, peace. A week later, I told Mark I wanted to separate. He moved out; I kept the house. I started living again—running, traveling, reading.
Two months later, I reconnected with Daniel. No rush, just quiet love. Six months after leaving, the divorce was final. I don’t hate him; he was part of my story, just not the ending.
The worst part of a marriage isn’t losing it—it’s losing yourself. I finally chose me. And that’s when my real story began.
