Where the Fog Lifts

There’s no right way to react when you find out you’ve been cheated on. But my body always knows before my mind does. I carry an unfortunate collection of memories of that kind. Once, I had to sprint to the bathroom and throw up after stumbling upon a sickening compilation of messages between my ex and several girls.

This time, thirteen years later, the nausea returned, but not enough to send me running. My body had to be stronger after so much practice. I had lost count of how many times I'd been cheated on. Still, this one felt different. This one wasn’t just a twisting sickness in my stomach. It was like a punch to my gut. Sharp. Sudden. Paralyzing.

Robert and I had been married for three and a half years. That morning, we woke up at 6:00 AM, getting ready for a road trip to visit his family. By 6:30 we were already in the car, but the fog was so thick it was impossible to see more than a foot beyond the windshield. The world outside was completely obscured. We barely made it past our street before deciding it was safer to turn back and wait.

You would assume that after so many bad experiences in this area, I would be the type of woman to go through my partner’s drawers, pockets, and phone. I wasn’t. I couldn’t even imagine living in that state of perpetual suspicion. Who has the energy? Maybe that was the problem with me all along.

So, I went back to our bedroom before him, intending to change into something more comfortable while we waited. His drawers were open—he had packed in a rush. And there it was. A single, unfolded piece of paper, sitting atop his neatly folded socks and underwear. I wouldn’t have paid it any attention, but my name wasn’t on it. Neither was his.

Carly.

Her words blurred before my eyes, but the message was clear. A woman named Carly, arranging a meeting between Robert and the little girl he had fathered. A daughter. One year old.

From what I could piece together, Robert had never met his child. But he had always stayed in contact with her mother. That made it worse, somehow. As an abandoned daughter with my own father-shaped wounds, the situation just felt entirely despicable to me.

The letter wasn’t romantic, but that hardly mattered. There had been enough romance approximately twenty-one months ago for this baby to be born. And in that moment, I decided, without hesitation, that I didn’t need to know any more.

So, I left.

I placed the letter on our bed, closed the door behind me, and stepped into the fog outside, which by then had softened into a mist. Thankfully, I had already packed for the weekend. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get me out of the house.

Thinking back, I am so grateful Robert wasn’t in sight when I left. He was probably scrolling through his phone, distracted as always, too preoccupied with nothing to notice the precious details of life around him. Just like he always was. I was relieved I didn’t have to listen to any desperate pleas or feeble justifications. I had a history of being easy to convince in these moments.

I walked for fifteen minutes, aimless, until I reached the train station. My head stayed down the entire time, my eyes fixated on my Mary Janes—the stupid shoes I had bought just for this stupid trip to meet his stupid family, only because I knew he liked them. I wondered if Carly liked them too.

The rhythmic tapping of my shoes against the pavement was oddly comforting. A steady sound cutting through the chaos in my mind.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Had there been signs I ignored?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I could swear this time was different. That I had finally found a decent man.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

How could I have been so stupid? What was happening between us twenty-one months ago? Were we distant? Traveling? Arguing more than usual?

I couldn’t remember.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Was he still seeing her?

Did it make a difference?

Should it?

The mist thickened again, making it uncomfortable to look up. So, I kept my head down, walking faster.

By the time I reached the train station, my heartbeat had slowed. My breathing steadier. My mind was still a mess, but at least the adrenaline was subsiding. Maybe the walking helped.

The mist had turned to a drizzle—better visibility, but still, the annoyance of tiny droplets clinging to my clothes. I bought a ticket to the coast for no particular reason other than that a train was leaving in twenty minutes and the fare was cheap.

If I was going to drown in a puddle of tears all weekend, I might as well do it facing the ocean.

Robert hadn’t called yet, to my surprise. How long until he realized I was gone? Until he found the letter?

I knew I should probably call someone, but just the thought of saying it out loud made me want to ugly cry in public. So, I kept my feelings bottled inside and tried to distract myself looking up.

I hadn’t cried yet. Shock carried me forward, keeping me moving, keeping me numb. And then, the moment I boarded the train and was forced to sit still, the dam broke. Teardrops obeyed gravity like they were being pulled into a black hole.

Outside, the sky cracked open, and it poured.

The rain was still relentless when I arrived. I got soaked to the bone within minutes after leaving the station, so I ducked into a small coffee shop and finally decided to call my mother. She was the only person I could imagine talking to at that moment. The moment I heard her voice, the floodgates opened again. Between sobs, I told her everything. She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to offer advice. She just listened. And I needed that more than anything.

Outside, the storm raged. But as we talked, as I finished my coffee, the downpour eased.

A drizzle.

Then, a mist.

Then, almost nothing at all.

By the time I hung up, the clouds had begun to part.

I opened my phone and searched for a place to stay. The only available option was a small bed and breakfast, empty because it was winter. Cozy enough. I booked a room through their website and walked there, now that the rain had stopped. The sky wasn’t entirely clear yet, but for the first time in hours, I could see the horizon.

As I checked in, my mother called again, checking in on me. She offered to come, but I told her I preferred to be alone for now. That night, I left my room only to go to the little grocery shop nearby. Robert called multiple times, but I wasn’t ready to hear him yet. I stayed in with my thoughts, bad reality TV, and my favorite foods.

The next morning, the sky was finally clear. A hint of sun breaking through. The air was freezing, but the light pulled me toward the beach. Standing on the shore, I felt an inexplicable pull—a longing for renewal.

Before I could second-guess myself, I stepped forward. The icy water swallowed me. The shock hit instantly, ripping through my system, stealing my breath. But as I surfaced, gasping, I felt something shift inside me.

I was ready to go back, face him, and do whatever had to be done. Not to reconcile, but to reclaim myself. If my life kept circling back to this same kind of heartbreak, there had to be a pattern—something within me drawing me to men who only knew how to take. If I didn’t figure it out, I’d end up here again. I needed space. Time. Distance.

I called my mother. When I told her I’d be staying with her for a while, I heard the relief in her voice, like she had been waiting for me to say those words. But first, I had to go back to the house one last time.

Three days later, I made the drive. The fog was just as thick as the morning I left, pressing in on all sides. But this time, I wasn’t lost in it. This time, I knew exactly where I was going.

Robert was waiting. He looked smaller than I remembered, somehow. Tired. Worn down. He cried, confessed, apologized. Said it meant nothing. Said he had been confused about us back then but wasn’t anymore. Said he had even been thinking about proposing. That he loved me. That he wanted a future with me.

I let him speak. I needed to hear every word and be sure there wasn’t a single piece of me left that could be swayed. And there wasn’t.

I packed my things, placed my key on the counter, and walked away. As I pulled out of the driveway, I caught his reflection in the rearview mirror—blurred, distorted by the mist clinging to the glass. Maybe he had always been that way, and I was only now seeing him clearly.

The farther I drove, the lighter the fog became. By the time I reached my mother’s house, the sky had opened, golden and clear. She was waiting for me on the porch, just like I knew she would be.

She wrapped me in her arms, holding me tight, as if she could press all my broken pieces back together. And maybe, in that moment, she did.

I looked up at the sky—wide, endless, full of possibility.

Maybe I wasn’t lost after all.

Maybe, for the first time in a long time, I was finally finding my way.