When my husband, Stan, left after I refused to follow him across the country, I thought it was the end. A year later, he showed up at my door—unprepared for who was standing behind me.
Stan and I were high school sweethearts. It started with teasing in algebra and turned into love. We married right after college, confident love was enough. For a while, it was.
But cracks appeared—his growing restlessness, my loyalty to my aging parents. When he got a job offer in Seattle, he gave me an ultimatum. I chose to stay. He chose to leave—with our savings and, soon after, someone new.
The divorce was ugly. I kept our dog, Max, and picked up freelance work to stay afloat. Slowly, I moved on. Then one rainy evening, he came back—suitcase in hand, smile unchanged.
“You always knew I’d come back,” he said. But his confidence vanished when he saw James behind me—my new husband.
Stan reeled. “You’re married?”
“Eight months now,” I said. “Funny, you moved on fast too.”
His job hadn’t worked out. His relationship hadn’t either. Now he wanted to “talk,” but James—my former divorce attorney—stood beside me. The same man Stan once insulted in court.
James had helped uncover a hidden Cayman account, and that financial betrayal won me the case—and later, his heart. Together, we’d started over, remodeling the kitchen and launching a nonprofit for seniors.
Stan mumbled an apology and begged for another chance. “We have history,” he said.
“You’re still a persistent little bug,” I told him. Then I handed him a card with a motel address. “Try the chicken pot pie. It tastes like regret.”
Inside, James waited. I wrapped my arms around him, finally at peace.
Outside, Stan disappeared into the rain. I didn’t look back. Everything that mattered was already in front of me.