Tonight, I realized something important.

I’m not sad about him in the way people might assume.

I’m sad about the memories — the life that once existed before everything changed.

Before San Diego.

Before the wedding.

Before the betrayal rewrote the story.

When we lived in Redwood City, we were genuinely happy. And I don’t say that lightly. Not everything in our seven years together was pain or disappointment. There were moments — real, beautiful moments — that still live in my body.

We had our own language.

Inside jokes that only we understood.

Silly little songs we made up out of nowhere.

We watched documentaries before bed, curled up together.

We had scary movie nights where I pretended not to be scared.

We went on adventures — Hawaii being one of the most special.

Some days, -like the one today – after long, exhausting hours at work, I’d come home completely drained — and there would be a bath drawn for me. Warm water. A glass of wine. Spanish guitar playing softly in the background. In those moments, I felt cared for in a way that was quiet and deep.

Our holidays held magic too.

Our first Christmas engaged, he made a full French-themed dinner just for us.

Our first New Year’s engaged, it was Spanish-themed — thoughtful, intentional, full of effort and love. He made the best paella and we drank Oban together, laughed and felt content.

Those memories were real.

And even though our marriage ended the way it did — painfully, unexpectedly, and with wounds I never deserved — I don’t hate him. I still love him as a human being. Not as a partner. Not as someone I would go back to. But as someone who shared a chapter of my life that shaped me.

Missing the good doesn’t mean I’m forgetting the bad.

It doesn’t mean I’m minimizing the hurt.

It simply means I’m being honest about my heart.

Some days — especially after a rough workday, stressed with payroll, mentally and emotionally exhausted — I come home and my body remembers what it once felt like to be met with care. And for a moment, I grieve that absence.

But I’ve learned something gentle and important:

I can take those beautiful memories and place them where they belong — not as anchors holding me back, but as proof of what’s possible.

They remind me that I am capable of deep love.

That I know how to build warmth, rituals, and intimacy.

That I have experienced a love that felt like home — even if it couldn’t last.

I will take those moments, tie them with a pretty bow, and set them down beside the painful ones — not to erase them, but to soften how I carry them forward.

Because one day, with the right person, I will build new versions of these memories again.

Different, but just as meaningful.

Rooted in safety.

Chosen every day.

And tonight, that hope is enough.