I’m sitting here in this tiny house in Saint-Éloi, a Quebec village so small it feels like the world forgot it, and I’m staring at the snow piling up outside, wondering if I’ve betrayed myself. I’m 45, and I left everything in Winnipeg—my job, my friends, my whole life—for Étienne, this charming Frenchman I met online. His smile, his accent, the way he made me feel like I was 25 again—it was intoxicating. But now, just a few weeks into this move, I’m haunted by the signs I saw before I packed my bags, the ones I pushed down because I wanted so badly to believe in us.

There were red flags, clear as day. I’d catch him glancing at my phone, his jaw tightening when a friend texted, especially if it was a guy. “Who’s that?” he’d ask, his tone sharp, like I was already guilty of something. I’d laugh it off, but it stung—this jealousy over nothing, this possessiveness that felt like a cage. And we didn’t even share much in common. He loves his quiet village life, his carpentry, his jazz records. I tried to get into it, but I’m a city girl—I miss art galleries, crowded cafés, the hum of Winnipeg. Our talks would fizzle out; he’d ramble about hiking trails, and I’d nod, pretending I cared, but inside, I felt this growing gap. We weren’t building something together; we were just… coexisting.

The worst part? I knew it might not work. Deep down, my gut was screaming it. The late-night calls were sweet, but they couldn’t hide how different we were, how his mistrust made me shrink. Yet I moved anyway. I told myself it was a grand adventure, that love was worth the risk, that I could make it work if I just tried hard enough. I wanted to believe in the fairy tale—the handsome Frenchman, the new life, the happy ending. But now, sitting here, I feel like I ignored my intuition, that quiet voice that knew better. Was I betraying myself? Choosing hope over truth?

I look around this house, my boxes still half-unpacked, and I feel so far from home. Étienne’s out there, probably whittling something, oblivious to how lost I feel. I don’t know if this relationship can bridge the gap between us, but I’m here now. At 45, I thought I’d trust myself more, but maybe this move wasn’t just about him—it was about me proving I could still take a chance. The question is, do I keep trying to force this, or do I listen to that voice now, the one whispering that I deserve a love that feels like home, not a battle? I don’t have the answer yet, but I owe it to myself to find it.