This is How I Leave

For a long time, I convinced myself I didn’t need much.

Not acknowledgment. Not celebration. Not help. I told myself I was strong. That I was self-sufficient. That if I didn’t expect anything, I couldn’t be disappointed.

But the truth is, I spent years being treated like what I wanted—or needed—didn’t matter. And I kept finding ways to live with that.

I was married to someone who didn’t ask questions. Someone who didn’t show up. Not in the big, dramatic moments, and not in the small, daily ones either. And for too long, I made excuses for that. I told myself he just didn’t know how to express things. I convinced myself I was fine carrying the weight on my own.

But I wasn’t fine.

I survived cancer in 1998. I was thirty years old. It changed everything. Every May 14th, I remembered that anniversary and was quietly proud of being a survivor. But I celebrated alone because my ex-husband didn’t acknowledge the date. Ever.

We met about a year after I finished treatment. I was slowly getting my life together—frail and growing my hair back—and everyone around me knew I had just survived cancer and chemo. It was a turning point in my life, and everything in my life now is because of that experience.

But I never said, “Today’s the day I was diagnosed with cancer, and I’d like to be acknowledged.” It was, coincidentally, the same day the Seinfeld finale aired, so instead of directly saying it was my “cancerversary”, I’d say, “Hey! Know what today is? It’s the X anniversary of the Seinfeld finale!” It was my way of reminding my husband of the date without asking too much.

But the person I was married to never asked what that day meant. Never picked up the cue. Never did anything to mark it. Not once in more than twenty years.

There were so many other moments like that. My first Mother’s Day after our son was born. No card. No flowers. No moment of acknowledgment. Just a cold, “You’re not my mother.” When I cried, he eventually booked a weekend away for my birthday. It felt like damage control. Our son was eight months old, and I didn’t want to leave him with someone else so I could pretend I was being celebrated. I wanted to be seen in my new role. I wanted to be valued for what I’d become.

There were other moments, smaller but just as telling. I bought tickets for a vegan dinner I was excited about. It wasn’t cheap, and it mattered to me. We had some argument—something forgettable—and he decided not to come. So I went alone. Another time, years later, I had two cancer scares in the span of a few months. He didn’t ask how I was feeling. Didn’t ask if I needed anything. The pattern wasn’t just in the big milestones—it was in the quiet ways he made it clear that what mattered to me didn’t matter to him.

There was the night I hosted my birth family—half-sisters I’d only just discovered after a lifetime of not knowing where I came from. I cooked dinner. Cleaned the house. Set the table. Tried to act normal. I asked him to skip a gaming session, just once, to be there for me. For this. He left anyway. My son and I welcomed these strangers-turned-family alone. He didn’t ask how it went. Didn’t seem to care.

Then came the broken wrist. I fell at home, and my son—twelve years old—had to stay calm, get help, and sit with me in the ER for fifteen hours. His father was 75 miles away at another gaming event. He turned off his phone. Didn’t come. Didn’t check in. Didn’t ask if our son was okay. Never followed up with either of us.

I’ve tried not to be angry, but let’s tell the truth: my son showed up in all the ways his father didn’t. He stayed. He listened. He carried more than he should have had to. And I see that now.

And I see myself, too.

For years I ignored the pattern. I shrank my needs down to something that wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable. I stopped asking for help. I stopped expecting celebration. I internalized the idea that I was too much, or not enough, or somehow the reason I kept being met with silence.

But it wasn’t me. It was never me.

I’m not mourning anymore. Not the marriage. Not the person I thought I married. That grief is done. What I feel now is clarity.

Next week, I start a new job. It’s not everything, but it’s enough to open the door I haven’t been able to walk through—until now. It gives me options. Movement. Escape. A way out—not just from the house I’ve stayed in too long, but from the story I’ve been stuck inside.

I’m not packing yet. But I’m standing on the edge. With no more excuses. No more bargaining. No more minimizing what I deserve.

I’m leaving soon. And I won’t be leaving myself behind.