There’s a lot that runs through a person’s mind in a single day. Just when you think you have something worth writing about, you get a paragraph in and slam into a roadblock. That happens to me often—partly because of my short-term memory issues, and partly because some topics simply don’t feel worth expanding on in the moment. Today was one of those days, and this is probably my third attempt at writing this entry.

One theme that continues to surface in conversations about grief and recovery is unhealthy relationships. Most people immediately think of relationships with other people—and yes, that’s certainly part of it. As anyone who has read my blog knows, my marriage was deeply unhealthy.

A friend recently asked me a heavy question: *“What would have happened if he hadn’t killed himself that day?”* It’s an interesting question, but also one that risks reopening the door to regret. Still, I’ll lay out my thoughts.

I truly believe that no matter the timeline, the end result would have been the same. Nothing could have prevented his death in the long run. Addiction and runaway debt had taken over his life. This was a man who once prided himself on never carrying a credit card balance. By the end, control had slipped away completely. My departure meant the loss of the safety net I had provided for years.

I was leaving. I had endured too much for too long, and by then, I had made the decision—without hesitation—that the marriage was over. I hadn’t told him yet, but the truth is, nothing could have saved our relationship. Therapy wouldn’t have fixed it. We weren’t going to magically reconnect. There was no “us” anymore.

Anyone close to the situation knew it had been broken for years, ever since he was charged with domestic violence. For nearly five years, I tried to convince myself things could be repaired. I didn’t really believe it, but it was a cover story—maybe for others, maybe for myself.

I don’t want to keep beating the same dead horse about living with an abuser. The real focus, when you talk to someone in an abusive situation, should be less about shouting *“just leave”* and more about figuring out what that person needs to survive and eventually get out. Trauma bonding is real, and the illusion of being able to fix it is powerful.

Unraveling from a relationship is never simple—even when abuse isn’t part of it. Couples build lives together. They share identities. They sign contracts, own things, make routines. Even after separation, reminders linger. I still get mail addressed to my married name two years later. Some routines, even small ones, were a comfort—someone else mowing the lawn, fixing a leaky faucet, paying a bill. You lose those too.

I don’t have a crystal ball. Maybe things would have been different, maybe worse. But in my bones, I know this: had he not died that night, he would have another night. The details might have changed—the place, the method—but the outcome wouldn’t have.

What’s not often spoken is that I had already started divorce proceedings. Papers were ready to serve the week he died. My attorney and I had prepared for a long, ugly battle, especially given his financial state. He had about negative fifty dollars to his name that day. It would not have ended well.

By the time of his death, I had already begun grieving. I had accepted the end of the marriage. So when the worst happened, it wasn’t much worse than what I was already preparing myself for. That may sound cold, but it’s the truth.

I still wrestle with regrets and *what-ifs*. But I also believe that very little could have altered the trajectory of my life. Choices made years ago wouldn’t have changed the inevitability of what happened. If not that night, then another.

Love is complicated. I can love people without liking them, as my mom used to say: *“I still love them, I just don’t like them very much right now.”* That was true for him in the end. The romance had died long before the pandemic, but there was still a platonic love, however twisted by everything else.

At the end of it all, I still had my dog, my mom, and the friends and family who saw me as me. And that’s what carried me forward.