It started over nothing. I was checking the steaks, humming to myself, when Étienne came in, already in a mood. He saw my phone light up with a text—a friend from back home, just saying hi—and his face darkened. “Who’s that now?” he snapped, like I was hiding something. I told him it was nothing, just a friend, but he wouldn’t let it go. He started pacing, muttering about how I’m “always on that phone,” and then it came, like a slap: “You’re only with me for the money, aren’t you? You think I’m some ticket to an easy life?” I froze, the spatula in my hand trembling. Money? I left a good job, my own apartment, my whole world to be here in this nowhere village with him. I’m not some gold-digger; I came for love, for him.
I tried to explain, my voice shaking, but he just kept going, his words cutting deeper. “You’re ungrateful,” he said, “you don’t belong here.” Every insult felt like a knife, twisting in my chest. I couldn’t take it. The smell of the steak burning, the candles flickering like they were mocking me—I just ran. I bolted upstairs, slammed the bedroom door, and now here I am, crying into my hands, the dinner ruined downstairs. At 45, I thought I’d be past this—past fights that leave you feeling small, past men who lash out instead of love you back. I moved here for Étienne, for that smile I fell for online, for the promise of something real. But tonight, all I feel is alone, wondering if I made a mistake, if I gave up everything for a man who doesn’t even see me. The tears keep coming, and I don’t know how to stop them, but I know I can’t stay up here forever. I just don’t know what comes next.
Here I am, sitting on the edge of this creaky bed in a tiny house in Saint-Éloi, Quebec, my eyes stinging from tears I didn’t expect to cry tonight. It’s Valentine’s Day, for God’s sake, and I’m 45, far from my old life in Winnipeg, in a village of 400 people I moved to for Étienne.