When my husband Stan left me because I refused to move across the country for his dream job, I thought our story was over. A year later, he showed up at my door—unprepared for what, or rather who, was behind me. Stan and I had been inseparable since high school, the classic sweethearts who married young. But cracks formed. He craved adventure, while I stayed to care for my aging parents. When he got an offer in Seattle,
he gave me an ultimatum: follow him or stay behind. I chose my family. He chose to leave—and drained our savings on the way out. The divorce was brutal. He moved on fast, flaunting a new woman online while I rebuilt my life piece by piece. Freelance gigs, family care, and, eventually, healing. Then came the knock at the door. Stan stood there, suitcase in hand, soaked by spring rain. “You always knew I’d come back,” he said—until he saw James, standing behind me. My new husband.
Stan was stunned. And even more so when he found out who James was: the divorce lawyer he’d once insulted in court. The same man who exposed Stan’s hidden offshore account. That money? It helped fund our fresh start—new kitchen, and a nonprofit for seniors. Stan apologized. Claimed he never stopped thinking of me. Asked for another chance,
I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. “You only came back because Plan A didn’t work out,” I said. I handed him a motel address and a bit of parting advice: “Try the chicken pot pie. It tastes like regret.” Inside, James waited. Safe, steady, kind.“Are you okay?” he asked. “Better than okay,” I said. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
