I began with my room, this cold space in a cold house where I’ve been waiting for a colder man. I cleaned it top to bottom—scrubbing floors, wiping down shelves, throwing out old, broken things that felt like anchors. That cracked mug I kept out of habit? Gone. The dollar-store phone case that screamed I wasn’t worth more? Replaced with a sleek, stylish one that feels like me—the me I used to be. I bought a beautiful notebook, its cover embossed with flowers, and a pen that glides like it’s got something to say. I’m writing again, jotting down thoughts, dreams, questions for the angels I’ve been talking to. It’s like I’m clearing out the clutter in my head along with the room, making space for decisions I’ve been too scared to face.
I’ve also been mirroring women I admire on Instagram—artists, writers, women my age who radiate confidence and joy. Their posts about painting, traveling, or just laughing with friends remind me of who I was before I gave up my hobbies for Étienne’s world. I’m sketching again, small doodles in my notebook, and it feels like coming home. I ordered a new scarf, vibrant and bold, because I want to feel vibrant again, not like the shadow I’ve become in this village. And Étienne? He’s noticed. Yesterday, he saw my new phone case and raised an eyebrow, asked why I’m “suddenly so fancy.” I didn’t answer, but inside, I was screaming, “Because I’m remembering who I am.” His irritation, his distance, even the suspicion he’s got someone else—it’s losing its grip on me. I’m not waiting for his approval anymore.
These changes, small as they seem, are like lifelines. The clean room, the stylish touches, the sketches—they’re helping me see clearly: I don’t want this life, this loneliness, this man who makes me feel small. The signs—the feather, the song, the astrologer’s words—are louder now, and so is my intuition. I’m 45, and starting over scares me, but staying here, losing myself to a man who doesn’t see me, scares me more. I’m not packing my bags yet, but every day, I’m reclaiming a piece of myself. I’m asking the angels, or maybe just my own heart, for the courage to keep going, to decide if I stay or leave. For now, I’m building a life here that’s mine, not his, and it feels like the first step toward freedom.