“Please,” he whispered. “You’re the only one who ever…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Because I wasn’t interested.
If I’d been a different kind of woman, I might’ve screamed.
I might’ve spat.
I might’ve laughed in his face.
But I didn’t.
I just looked down at him and said softly, dangerously:
“You made your choice a long time ago, Larry.”
Then I turned.
And I walked away.
Not fast.
Not shaking.
Not crying.
Just walking like my life belonged to me again.
Because it did.
A week later, I got the update from the real estate agent—the one who’d helped me find that “perfect” countryside house.
She called me while I was at lunch.
Her voice was half amused, half horrified.
“Julie… you are not going to believe what’s happening out there.”
I leaned back in my chair, staring out the café window at the traffic.
“Try me.”
She exhaled.
“They’re in chaos. The neighborhood is talking. They fight constantly. The neighbors say they’ve heard yelling and glass breaking almost every night.”
I hummed lightly, like I was listening to weather updates.
“The house keeps sinking. Literally. The porch is tilting. The fence is leaning. They tried to patch the cracks, but new ones keep appearing.”