I was fifty when I found out that my husband—yes, Marco, him, the one who would get outraged if the pasta wasn’t perfectly al dente—had decided to leave me.
For whom? For his psychologist.
He said that with her he was “rediscovering himself.”
A woman always smiling, wearing heels that defied gravity, with a voice that sounded like it belonged on a reality show. She even spoke to the delivery guy as if she had a microphone strapped to her.
— I need to live for myself, — he told me, with the dramatic air of a king abdicating. — I want to discover who I am.
Who are you, Marco? The man who loses his keys every month in the same pocket? The one who still asks me for the PIN to his card every single week?
I said nothing. Not because of the shock. But because of that strange calm that comes when you’re too tired to get angry. Over the years, I had heard him say:
“I forgot.”
“I changed my mind.”
“I didn’t realize…”
Words like a distant echo, background noise. And while he spoke, I remembered.
I remembered the times I washed his favorite sweater by hand, even when I was bone-tired. The dinners endured with his friends who only ever talked about finance and sports. His silences, his “I need to think,” his walls. Everything. I had swallowed it all.
And now he was leaving to “reinvent himself” with someone who thinks Picasso is a sneaker brand.
— This has nothing to do with you, — he said, avoiding my eyes.
Of course, Marco. It’s just that I wasn’t a “novelty” anymore. Today, people want what’s “organic,” “positive,” and above all, effortless.
— And you? What will you do now? — he asked, as if I were the one lost.
— I’ll do what you never knew how to do: live, — I answered, pulling my robe tight around me like armor.
And off he went. With his “inner explorer” backpack and that crumpled jacket that smelled more of routine than freedom.
And me? I stayed. Alone. But not empty.
I grabbed that bottle of wine we had been saving “for a special occasion.” I uncorked it. And I drank it. Because leaving Marco’s life behind was, in itself, more than a valid reason to celebrate.
The next day I went to the hairdresser. To the bank. And to that pastry shop where I had always wanted to try the cherry pie, but “it was never the right time.”
And that evening? I created a profile on a dating app. Not to find someone. But to see if there was anyone out there who could see the woman who, for years, had been hidden behind a faded love.
That night I fell asleep with a book in my hands and the cat curled up at the foot of the bed. No makeup. No plan. But with a lighter heart.
Because sometimes, you don’t need a new love. You just need to start choosing yourself again.
And you know what? I realized that a woman must be, first and foremost, her own most faithful ally.
I love myself. Not because I’m perfect, but because I’ve stopped being afraid of being me.
Women, love yourselves. Every single day. Don’t settle for crumbs. You deserve the whole cake.
