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I came into my room and cried my eyes out —
not just the kind of crying that leaves you breathless for a moment,
but the kind that tears you open from the inside.
I cried like never before.
I remembered what my siblings had told me days ago, their words now echoing like prophecy:
“You’ll really cry one day, Josephine. You’ll cry until you understand what you’ve done.”
Back then, I thought they were bluffing.
I laughed it off.
I was proud, stubborn — blind.
But tonight, those words finally came alive.
And they came true.
Because my tears had just begun.
I remembered my elder sister’s warning — her voice still cold, her eyes filled with something between pity and anger:
“By the time you realize what you’re doing to yourself, the night will fall on you, and no one will be able to pull you out.”
She was right.
The night had fallen on me, and I was completely alone.
For two days, I didn’t step out of my room.
I cried until I couldn’t breathe.
My father didn’t even notice.
He didn’t care anymore — or maybe he did, but didn’t know how to show it.
He used to call me his best daughter, his pride.
But now… I was nothing but disappointment in his eyes.
He walked past my door without a word.
No knock.
No “Are you okay?”
Nothing.
I stopped checking my phone for Handson’s call — my husband.
Because deep down, I knew he wouldn’t call.
He was done with me.
But still, I prayed that I was wrong.
Because if I was right, then my world was truly over.
That morning, I woke up with swollen eyes and a headache that pulsed through my skull.
The baby was crying — my sweet boy.
I carried him in my arms, sat on the edge of my bed, and the tears came again, hot and relentless.
I kissed his forehead and whispered, trembling,
“I’m sorry, my love… I’m so sorry for what I did to you.
I ruined your life, honey.
I let my foolishness and my pride destroy everything that mattered.
You shouldn’t be living like this.
Your father loves you so much — he would’ve been here since the day you were born, holding you, protecting you.
But I took you away from him.
I listened to the wrong people instead of listening to my heart… instead of listening to your father.
Please forgive me, baby.
Don’t be angry with your dad because he’s not been around — it’s not his fault, it’s mine.
Be angry with me, not him.
Because I made the worst mistake a woman can make… and I’m paying for it.
I promise, I’ll make things right, even if it costs me my life.”
I held him closer, sobbing.
My baby looked up at me with wide, tearful eyes — then tilted his little head and smiled.
That smile broke me even more.
It was the same smile his father used to give me when he was proud of me, when we were still us.
For a moment, my baby stopped crying.
It was like he forgave me without words.
For that moment, I felt peace — a painful, fleeting peace.
My hands were shaking when I picked up my phone.
I stared at the screen for what felt like an hour, afraid.
Afraid that he wouldn’t answer.
Afraid that he’d blocked me.
Afraid that my voice would tremble too much to speak.
Finally, I dialed his number.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then — a click.
“Hello?”
His voice. Calm. Controlled. Familiar and distant all at once.
“Who is this? And what are you doing calling my phone?”
I froze. My heart sank.
Then somehow, through the shaking, the words stumbled out:
“It’s… it’s me, Handson.
Please — don’t hang up.
I’m so glad you haven’t blocked me… I was so scared you did.
Please, my husband… I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for everything — for all I did to you, for all the pain I caused.
Please forgive me.”
There was a pause on the line.
Then his voice came, calm but heavy, like rain that doesn’t stop falling.
“Josephine… all I want is my son.
You can come anytime to sign the divorce papers.
I can’t do this anymore.
You made it clear that I — and our daughter — never really mattered to you.
Don’t call me again.
I’ll send your things.”
My breath caught.
My heart shattered.
I screamed, almost involuntarily:
“Please! Oh God, please, Handson! Forgive me!
I know I was wrong.
I was stupid, blind, proud.
I see everything now.
Please, let’s start over!
Let’s be like we were.
I love you. I miss you. Please… don’t do this.”
For a moment, I thought I heard him sigh — that old, tired sigh he used to give when he didn’t want to argue.
Then he said quietly:
“I miss my son, Josephine.
But that ship sailed a long time ago.
There’s nothing to go back to.
It’s all in the past now.
We can’t live under the same roof again.
Tell my son I love him.
I’ll come for him soon.
You have a better day ahead.”
And the line went dead.
I sat there, holding the phone against my ear even after the silence swallowed me.
The room felt like it was spinning.
My baby was staring at me again, his little hands reaching for my tears.
I whispered,
“He’s gone, honey. Daddy’s gone.”
I rocked him back and forth, humming the lullaby that Handson used to sing when I was pregnant — a song about coming home.
But there was no home anymore.
No laughter.
No warmth.
Just me, my baby, and the echo of the words that ended it all.
That night, I couldn’t eat.
I couldn’t even pray.
I kept replaying everything in my mind — the day I walked out on him, the fights, the silence, the pride that built a wall so high neither of us could climb it.
He used to call me “his peace.”
Now I was his pain.
I realized what I had done —
I didn’t just lose a husband.
I lost my best friend.
I lost the man who once looked at me like I was his whole world.
And I did it with my own hands.
Days passed.
I stopped counting.
Every morning, I woke up with swollen eyes and a heart that refused to heal.
I went about feeding my baby, doing chores, pretending to exist.
But inside, I was a ghost.
Sometimes I’d stare at the phone, hoping for a miracle — a text, a call, a sign that maybe he missed me too.
But nothing came.
Only silence.
The same silence that now lived inside me.
Weeks later, I heard from one of his cousins that he had changed his number.
That he was moving to another city.
That he looked happy.
I smiled when I heard that — but the kind of smile that hurts more than crying.
I realized then that love, when lost, doesn’t always die in anger.
Sometimes it dies quietly — like a candle that simply runs out of wax.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what true regret is.
Not the pain of being left behind, but the pain of knowing you’re the reason they left.
Now, every night, I hold my baby and whisper to him:
“Your father loves you. Don’t ever think he doesn’t.
One day, when you’re old enough, you’ll meet him again.
And I hope he’ll see in your eyes what he once saw in mine — hope, love, and forgiveness.”
Sometimes I imagine that phone ringing again — his voice saying my name softly, like he used to.
But it never does.
Maybe it never will.
So I’ve learned to speak my apologies to the wind, to the silence, to the pillow soaked with tears.
Because sometimes, forgiveness isn’t something you’re given.
It’s something you learn to live without.
And yet, in the quietest hours, when my baby sleeps and the world forgets me for a while,
I close my eyes, and in the darkness, I still whisper:
“Handson, I’m sorry.”
And somewhere deep inside, a voice I’ll never hear again whispers back,