There’s something strange — almost surreal — about seeing parts of yourself in the man your ex left you for.

It’s not about jealousy.
It’s not even about betrayal anymore.
It’s about recognition.

The more I hear about him, the more I realise:
He could have been me.

The mother-son dynamic is similar. The infantilisation. The quiet undercurrent of emotional enmeshment that never quite lets a person grow up. He still loves Lego at 43, doesn’t hold down a job that pays more than minimum wage, and moves through the world like someone quietly waiting for permission to live.

And I get it.
I know that place.
That’s the version of me I might have become — if I hadn’t gone to therapy. If I hadn’t done the hard work of breaking those inner ties and finally taking responsibility for my own emotional growth.

He listens to the same kind of music I once clung to — back when I needed it just to survive. Music that held my pain when I didn’t have the words yet. There’s a strange familiarity there, and part of me even wonders if we could’ve connected in some other timeline. Maybe we could’ve talked about what it’s like to grow up emotionally stunted. Maybe we would’ve understood each other’s wounds.

But that’s not how I connect anymore.
I don’t build relationships through shared damage.
I connect through awareness. Through growth. Through the long, messy process of becoming who I actually am — not just who I had to be to survive.

And then there’s her — the mother of my child.
The one who cheated, then circled back.
The one who tried to make it work again, and for a while, maybe I believed she meant it. But even now, I’m not sure why. Was it manipulation? Was it a play to get married and gain access to my money? Was it something even more calculated?

Maybe he told me the truth because he felt guilty.
Or maybe — more likely — it wasn’t about protecting me at all.
Maybe he just didn’t want to share her anymore.
Maybe it was his way of staking a claim, regardless of the fallout.

And the truth is: I don’t need to know.
I don’t need to romanticise his motives, or hers.
I don’t need closure in a box tied with string.

Because I see what I needed to see:
That could have been me.
But it’s not.

I walked away.
I did the work.
I chose self-respect, even when it meant being alone.
Even when it hurt.
Even when no one clapped for it.

And that, finally, is peace.

Not a loud, triumphant peace.
A quiet one. The kind that settles in your bones after years of chaos.
The kind that doesn’t need revenge or understanding — just release.

I don’t need answers anymore.
I don’t need explanations.
I have what matters: the knowing that I’ve changed.

They’re still living inside the story I walked out of.
And that story no longer belongs to me.

Mine is being written elsewhere —
With more truth.
More fire.
And far more love — the kind that doesn’t tear me apart.