One that came from somewhere deep inside me.
Mark texted around lunch.
“What are we doing for dinner Thursday when I get back? Also, I called the room and nobody answered. Put Darlene on for a second?”
I read the message while sitting on the dock with my feet dangling in the water.
I didn’t reply.
An hour later:
“Sarah?”
I turned my phone facedown.
Darlene ran toward me, wet and sandy.
“Mom! Come see the starfish!”
“Coming.”
I left my phone behind.
That evening, after the children went to sleep, I sat on our little balcony listening to the ocean.
I thought about something my mother had always said about me.
Sarah is the easy one.
For thirty-six years, I had treated that as a compliment.
Being easy.
Being agreeable.
Being fine.
Being the woman who never needed anything.
Suddenly, I understood.
It wasn’t a compliment.
It was a job description.
By the third day, something surprised me.
I didn’t feel guilty.
I kept expecting guilt to show up.
It never did.
Instead, while watching Max teach Darlene how to float, I finally recognized what I was feeling.
I felt like myself.
Not Mark’s wife.
Not the mother who organized everything.
Not the woman responsible for packing golf clubs.
Just Sarah.
Around three that afternoon, my phone rang.
I already knew what had happened.
Mark had returned to the original resort.
He had gone to our room.
The key didn’t work.
The front desk had told him we checked out three days earlier.
His name flashed across my screen.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Sarah…” His voice sounded strange. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
I sat on the balcony watching sunlight dance across the water.
For several seconds, I said nothing.
Then I realized something else.
Mark was crying.
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