Fifty-Two Trips Too Late
From dating to marriage, seven years together, Kevin Fletcher bailed on fifty-two trips with me.
Every single time, he had an excuse. A project deadline. A last-minute business trip. An elderly relative who suddenly wasn't doing well.
And every single time, he promised he'd make it up to me.
I believed him.
Fifty-two times.
Until last month, when I found a travel planner tucked away in his study.
Inside were fifty-two plane tickets to the same city.
And fifty-two photos of him and his so-called childhood friend, Fiona Snow.
Written on the first photo:
[She said she wanted to see the ocean, so I cleared my schedule and took her.]
On the thirty-third:
[She got drunk and said her biggest regret was never starting a family with me.]
The fifty-second photo was dated the same day he blew off our fifth wedding anniversary trip.
On the back, he'd written:
[She's pregnant. I'm going to be a dad!]
I wiped my tears away, opened my laptop, and drafted the divorce papers.
Then I booked a ticket to Antarctica.
This time, I was going to see the view alone.