The one with my father never recovered from the fallout ten years ago. One of the reasons I gave David another chance after what happened in Carmel was my father. I was sixteen when he cheated on my mother and denied it, just like David. Only my mother didn’t forgive him—or try to—she kicked him out. He seemed depressed for a while, but that didn’t last long. A few months later, I found out he was remarrying and his new wife was expecting a child. I accused my mother of throwing him into the arms of another woman. I accused him of never loving us. I haven’t talked to my father in nine years and haven’t seen him in just as long. And he didn’t make an effort either. As if his new family was more important than us.

I had blamed my mother for breaking up our family for so long that when I was faced with that same choice, I made my decision as if to prove I’d always been right. What I ended up doing was proving it was my mother who was right all along. You can’t keep someone tied to you just because you have a home together, and you’ve spent years together. You can’t pretend to believe someone if deep down in your heart you don’t trust them. Trust, once lost, it’s almost always lost forever. And most of all, you can’t force yourself to love someone.

I look around the apartment and make a mental list. All my stuff should fit in two suitcases. My books in boxes, and whatever else is left, I’ll just put it in the trunk of my car.

At the bottom of a drawer, I find my old notebooks. Seeing them makes me sad. I could hardly write any of my stories this past year. The one thing I did write is hidden in a thick yellow envelope among them. My manuscript; the fastest 80,000 words I ever wrote. The story of that day in Carmel, of us. I promised myself I wouldn’t write another novel, but I couldn’t not write this one. I couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t do anything else until I finished it. Well, except for the ending. I couldn’t bring myself to mirror real life and break my character’s heart like that. It was too cruel. But every other option also seemed unrealistic and far-fetched. So, it’s almost finished.

I never showed it to anyone, especially not to Alisa. I know she’d have the absolute best intentions and she’d be nice about it, but I don’t think I could take yet another disappointment. This story is too important for me and I won’t let anyone tell me it’s not good enough. I place the manuscript with my ‘important’ documents folder and put it in a box. Then I change my mind and move it to one of the suitcases. I’m not letting it out of my sight.