I began to monitor accounts personally, even if I trusted the numbers. Every time I crocheted, I remembered the moment he made my passion feel insignificant.
Some nights, I would catch him watching me from the hallway, as if he wanted to speak but didn’t know how.
Maybe he didn’t.
Kelsey never expressed any remorse. Not once.
She sent thank-you notes for the bridal gifts, tagged everyone in Instagram posts, but never addressed what she had taken.
And Jake never asked her to.
Honestly, that spoke volumes.
Now, we’re making an effort to rebuild our relationship. We’re striving to return to where we need to be. Counseling helps, as does giving each other space, and having honest conversations that are painful yet truthful.
I told Jake I don’t forgive easily, and that trust doesn’t reset like a password.
“I’m learning,” he acknowledged.
I can’t predict what our future holds in a year.
I’m not even sure I’ll be here in six months. But for the moment, we’re trying.
He listens more. I voice my thoughts louder.
He respects boundaries, while I stopped softening mine to maintain peace.
And now?
Every time a new bride joins the family, every engagement announcement, and each invitation sample shared, someone always whispers, “At least you’re not Kelsey.”
Weddings are costly, but betrayal? That’s a debt you can’t afford, especially when it comes from someone you thought would never let you down.
Sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet and the world stills, I find solace on the couch, crocheting.
The sound of the hook, the tension of the yarn, the rhythm of creating something, stitch by stitch. It calms me, grounds me, and reminds me that I can craft beauty from scratch even when everything feels in disarray.
I’m currently working on a new blanket.
Deep reds and stormy grays. Nothing soft or pastel. Something more resilient.
Something that maintains its form.
Last week, Jake returned home to find me weaving in the edges. He paused in the doorway, watching.
“Who’s that one for?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t look up. I kept stitching.
“Me,” I replied.
And this time, he didn’t press.
He simply nodded and left me to my work. Because this time, I wasn’t creating for craft fairs, friends, or to seek forgiveness. This one was for me.
