My Wife and I Hadn’t Spoken in 10 Years Until I Found Out She Was Getting Married Again – Story of the Day
Ten years. That’s how long it had been since Lila and I last spoke. Not a word. Not a text. Not even a birthday message. Our divorce had been quiet, no screaming, no scandal — just a slow erosion of love, like waves carving out a cliff. One day, we stopped trying.
I moved to Denver. She stayed in Seattle. We both rebuilt our lives in separate corners of the world, like strangers who used to know each other intimately.
Then, two weeks ago, I got a call from my sister, of all people.
“Did you hear?” she said, cautiously.
“Hear what?”
“Lila’s getting married again.”
Something in my chest cracked open.
I didn’t want to care. I had no right to. We’d signed those papers a decade ago. But hearing it said aloud — that someone else would stand where I once stood, hold her hands, promise her forever — it shook me in a way I didn’t expect.
So I did something irrational. Something no self-respecting ex-husband should probably do.
I booked a flight to Seattle.
I told myself it wasn’t about jealousy. It wasn’t about stopping the wedding. I just needed… closure. Maybe even forgiveness.
I found her at a small café she used to love. She looked almost the same — older, wiser, but still Lila. She was sitting by the window with a coffee and a notebook, the kind she always carried around.
I almost turned around. But then she looked up — and froze.
“Eli?” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Hi,” I said, awkward and stunned. “I heard you were getting married.”
She blinked. “I… wow. That was fast.”
I sat down. No invitation. Just instinct.
There was silence at first — a decade’s worth.
And then, slowly, we talked.
Not about the wedding. Not at first. We talked about our old house, her dog Max, my new job, her art. There was no bitterness, just a strange, quiet grief for everything we’d lost.
Finally, I asked, “Is he good to you?”
She nodded. “He’s kind. Gentle. He listens.”
I swallowed hard. “I wasn’t any of those things. Not enough, anyway.”
She looked at me with a softness I didn’t expect.
“You were who I needed, then,” she said. “But people grow. Sometimes in different directions.”
I nodded. “I’m not here to change your mind. I just… wanted to say I’m sorry.”
A tear slid down her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
We didn’t hug. We didn’t hold hands. But something lifted between us — a weight I’d carried for years.
She got married a week later.
I didn’t attend.
But for the first time in ten years, I felt peace. Because sometimes, the greatest act of love is letting someone go — and wishing them happiness, even if you’re no longer part of it.
