Five different friends from church called me Sunday afternoon as they noted my absence from worship the past two Sundays. Megan and I never missed a week. Calls continued to come in, but then the number I dreaded the most appeared on my cell phone. On Sunday night, nine days after she dropped the bomb, Megan wanted to talk to me.

My voice revealed more than a hint of anger mixed with obvious pain as I gathered my strength and answered with a single word.

“What?” I could tell I startled her as I found myself trying to control my breathing. I really wanted to be calm, but clear.

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“Ah… Ben. Can we talk?” Her voice was shaking. It was clear she felt the weight of her decision. That brought me no comfort or sympathy. My emotions were still very raw. The tension was thick through a few moments of silent pause.

“You’ve said it all in your letter. Hope you find what you’re looking for… whatever that is. Although I thought we had the true love you kept repeating in that novel you wrote.”

I could hear her breathing heavily.

“Look, Megan! I will always care for you, but for my own sanity… right now I don’t think I can talk to you.”

I heard her beginning to sob as I hung up. I had run out of tears. Her call gave me the opportunity to vent, and that felt good in that moment. I grabbed a beer, sat in my favorite chair, and willed myself to move on.