A few days ago, you moved into your new home. You were leaving the house where our children were born exactly six weeks after I made the decision to end our relationship. A month and a half after I told you I wanted to end our family life. A relationship that was nearing its seventh year.
Our romantic relationship had been on the decline for quite some time already. Despite that, this announcement hit you like a bucket of cold water in the face. Strangely, for me, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders—a weight that had been crushing me.
I know you’re angry with me for ending it all. But please understand—I was slowly dying inside. I was suffocating; I felt trapped. I had to get out of there, as if my life depended on it.
My mental health was deteriorating at breakneck speed. We weren’t really arguing. It wasn’t a matter of physical or psychological abuse, either. It was just that I’d lost myself, and the only thing I knew was that I hadn’t seen you by my side for quite some time.
I don’t blame you for being angry with me.
I didn’t leave you any room to maneuver, any extra chances, or any way out. My mind was made up, and nothing you said or did would have changed that decision.
I only hope that, despite everything, we can remain a team—albeit a different one—for the sake of our two children. Because, deep down, they are what matters most and are our top priority.