As I walked through the familiar streets of my hometown, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions. The sun was setting behind the towering palm trees, casting a warm golden light over the quaint neighborhood where I grew up. I had returned to this place two years ago, seeking solace and a fresh start after my divorce. But now, I was back, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being pulled back into a past I had thought I’d left behind.

My ex-wife, Emma, had been on my mind nonstop since I’d arrived in town. We had been high school sweethearts, and our relationship had been the epitome of young love – passionate, all-consuming, and ultimately, doomed. After college, we’d gone our separate ways, and I’d spent years trying to put the memories of her behind me. But as I navigated my newfound single life, I realized that the wound I thought had healed was still tender.

The phone rang, shrill in the quiet of my childhood bedroom. I hesitated for a moment before answering, wondering if it would be her on the other end. My heart skipped a beat as I heard her voice, husky and hesitant. “Marisol, I’m so glad I could reach you. We need to talk.”

I hesitated, unsure of what to do next. A part of me wanted to push the question of forgiveness and closure back down the well of memories, down the treacherous path that had led me to this moment. Another part of me craved understanding, explanations, regrets – a desire to hear that what seemed like forever ago would never happen again. Below these competing forces, I would seek counsel from others whose stories share striking similarities. Then, once my judgment is restored, my internal contemplations over my interactions would transpire walking toward re-igniting whatever this dream-turned-fiasco life journey may feel.