Memories 😦

The moment I saw that familiar chipped blue gate, my heart did a little somersault—not the graceful Olympic kind, but more like a potato falling down a flight of stairs.

There it was. The "Love Nest." Or, as I now prefer to call it, the Location of the Great Shedding. Standing there with my hair half-tangled and my soul looking for a GPS signal, I felt the phantom itch to reach for my phone. I wanted to call him. I wanted to say, "Hey, remember me? The girl who used to leave bobby pins in your toaster?" But then I remembered the White Rabbit.

In our relationship, the White Rabbit wasn't a cute pet or a Lewis Carroll character; it was his "epiphany" that he needed "space to find his inner carrot." Translation: He wanted to be single, and I was suddenly an uninvited guest in a life we’d built together.

I stood on that pavement for a good five minutes, staring at the driveway. I looked like a suburban gargoyle. A lady walking her poodle gave me a look that suggested she was three seconds away from calling a priest or the council.

"I’m respecting his decision," I whispered to a nearby hydrangea. "I am a beacon of maturity. I am a lighthouse of self-control."

The hydrangea didn't look convinced. Neither was I. My thumb hovered over his contact name—which I had changed to "Do Not Call Unless the House is On Fire (And Even Then, Check the Weather First)".

But then, a divine intervention occurred. A bird—let’s call him a pigeon with impeccable comedic timing—decided that my shoulder was the perfect landing strip for his afternoon "contribution."

Splat.

Nothing kills a romantic, pining vibe faster than avian digestive waste. If the universe was trying to tell me to move on, it wasn't being subtle. It was screaming.

The Great Retreat...