Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – 
I took the one less traveled by.
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

I’ve always loved that poem, but for a different reason than most of my friends. People often mistakenly call it “The Road Less Traveled.” They say it’s abut doing the unpopular thing, taking the unusual path. But the poem is called “The Road Not Taken,” and to me, it’s about choices. You come to a fork in the road, you choose your path, and you move forward, knowing life may not give you a chance to see what was on that other road.

I’ve always tried to live by that. I choose my course and do my best to commit to it, to face forward and forge my way. Today, though, one last time – I need to look back.

I need to say goodbye.

I have been married for five years, a mother for four. My second child was born almost six months ago. My husband and I were friends online, then dated for six months before I flew 1500 miles to marry him and start over. It was abrupt, to say the least. I left behind a career, friends, and family. I was a fairly successful professional on my way to a lucrative job, living in a relatively busy city with lots of friends. I was in love.

And not with my husband, either.

That was my other road. I was going to call him the one that got away, but that isn’t right. Maybe I got away. Maybe we both did. But I know now that it isn’t that I tried to hold on to him and couldn’t. Whatever happened between us, it wasn’t that. 

I’m a stay at home mom now. My marriage is, truth be told, lukewarm. We aren’t rich but we scrape by. People who used to know me, back when I was doing a job I loved and dating someone I was madly in love with, don’t understand why I did what I did.

This is why. It’s a long story.

I grew up with a father who loved a good backhand as his primary form of discipline and a mom who was severely depressed and tired of fighting. My brother, who was as traumatized as I was from the abuse, neglect, and toxicity, would often beat and degrade me in a way that went beyond normal sibling conflict. As I got older I was a target for predatory types. They could tell I was vulnerable.

Things got better when I graduated and left for college. I couldn’t always afford food or shelter, but I had real friends. I wasn’t afraid to go home at night. I flourished. I healed. I agreed to my first real date, with a guy I met on the bus on my way to work.

Long story short, the asshole tried to rape me on that date. I had to physically fight him off, over and over as I stumbled away. I did get away but it changed me. He was my first kiss. 

I didn’t date again for two years. I finished school and started working full time, then started graduate school while still working. I made more friends. I got a more permanent place with roommates, and was looking at getting my own apartment. Then we met.

He’s the only guy who ever gave me butterflies. From the instant I met this man, we clicked into place. We had similar backgrounds and similar interests. He respected me for what I’d survived and who I’d become. I felt the same about him. Every time we were around each other, we would talk for hours. I’m not really sure when we became more than friends, because it felt so natural right from the start. (Also, he and I were both religious, so the physical markers weren’t all there.) 

For three years it was blissful. Then I had to move for work. It was only half an hour away from the city where he lived, on foot. By car it was 5 minutes – but I couldn’t drive, for medical reasons.

It was no big deal at first, He’d come over after work to see me. Then he got busy. I got busy. We drifted apart. In the meantime, I made friends in my new city. I worked hard.

I got my own apartment alone.

And I started getting notes.

I thought it was him at first. I thought it was cute. Little notes and love poems on my door or in my mailbox. Then they got more graphic. I told him to stop and he had no idea what I was talking about. We fought. He disappeared from my life.

The notes continued. My coworkers would get calls asking about me. My church leader got calls asking about me. I was so scared.

Finally, I decided to run. I took a week off work and found a temporary space to move to. I got a new number and made changes to my appearance. Not sure who else to turn to, I asked him to come and help me. He said yes. He told me he was sorry, he loved me, and he would be there.

I waited all week. He didn’t show. Each day he said it was an unavoidable work meeting or assignment but definitely he would be there tomorrow.

At the end of the week, I spiraled. I canceled my plans. I relapsed on bad behaviors I had stopped years ago. For the next 6 months, he and I dated casually as I hid my descent into deep depression and then depressive psychosis. I was still scared to go home at night. I was always so scared. We never talked about that week he didn’t show. I didn’t hold it against him. Work is work, right? We all have bills to pay.

Then one day I found out he’d started drinking, which surprised me because he’d been dead set against it for a long time. During that conversation, he mentioned the week he was supposed to help me move. He laughed and told me he actually had the week off work, but, well, “I blame the tequila.” 

I told him it was over. I have not seen him in person since that day.

Within 18 months, I was married to someone else.

He tells people I dumped him over casual drinking. He says I’m one of those uptight church girls who judges anyone who doesn’t follow the rules. But it isn’t about that. In my darkest hour, I needed him, and he wasn’t there. And then he laughed about it.

The laugh was the end of us.