I’m the one who fucked this up.

I’m the one who pushed her to the side for my own ambitions.

I’m the one who forgot about our plans for after baseball.

I steamrolled her.

I pulled her from her comfort.

And I’m the one who broke us.

I don’t deserve to be with her, not after the way I treated her. Marriage is about compromise, supporting each other, and helping each other live out their dreams. This marriage has been completely one-sided, and that’s because of me.

What a selfish fucking prick.

It’s good I let her go. She deserves to be set free.

She deserves to find her own happiness, happiness that I know doesn’t include me.

I spend the rest of my night allowing her words to slice me with every breath I take.

I replay the past couple of months over and over in my head.

And I think about how I could have possibly let our marriage—Myla—slip through my fingers.

Not that it needs an excuse because there is no excuse for treating my wife that way, but I was consumed. When I retired early, I had a shitty batting average, I wasn’t on top of my game, and because my arm was wrecked, the media devoured me with relentless, disparaging commentary. It ate me alive at night, to the point that I felt the need to prove to everyone, all the naysayers, that I didn’t need baseball to be successful. Myla is right. I did whatever it took to prove that. And I left her in the dust.

I took her away from her friends, Nichole in particular. I forgot about our promises for post-baseball life. I completely ignored her needs and desires. Her life. But knowing she felt so utterly abandoned, a deep trauma she’s tried to heal from? That is not what a loving husband should ever do. I made her suffer. It’s unforgivable. You fucked up, Bisley.

It makes me physically ill, because I’ve watched her grow. I saw her fight through her negative thoughts and finally realize her worth, and therefore, exploited the chance she took on me. It was beautiful to see her grow in such a positive way. To know that I forced her to experience the ugly side of her upbringing again is inexcusable.

I need to apologize again.

I need her to know how sorry I am.

I pull out a paper and pen from my nightstand.

* * *

MYLA

Myla: He signed the papers.

Nichole: Wait . . . what? Just now?

Myla: Yes.

Nichole: How do you feel?

Myla: Awful.

My phone rings almost immediately, and I suck back my tears as I bury my head into my pillow and put my phone on speaker. “Hey.” I sniff.

“Are you crying?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Okay, walk me through everything.”

“Well, we finally combusted. He came charging into my room because he didn’t think I’d packed for Napa, yelled at me—”

“Which is a given after all of the battery stealing.”