I Stopped Chasing Him After Ten Years And Never Looked Back Chatper 01
I chased a man for ten years, and in the end, it was my six-year-old daughter who taught me to let go.
At dinner that day, I tried to talk to Jared Rydell again.
“Jared, would you take Cora to the park on Saturday?”
He didn’t look up, just tapped his chopsticks against the edge of his bowl.
I was about to repeat myself.
Suddenly, Cora put down her chopsticks, looked up at me, and said, “Mommy, stop calling Daddy.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
My hand froze in mid-air.
Jared’s chopsticks paused for a second, then he went back to shoveling rice into his mouth.
Six years old.
She was only six, and already she knew how to read her father’s silence for him.
I stared into Cora’s bright, dark eyes, and suddenly realized that these ten years of mine had been nothing but a one-man show.
I stood up, picked up Cora’s bowl, and said,
“Come on, let’s go eat in the living room.”
That was the last time I ever spoke to Jared first at the dinner table.
***
After Cora finished eating, I gave her a bath, read her two stories, and rocked her to sleep.
I went back to the bedroom. Jared was propped against the headboard, scrolling through his phone.
The blue light from the screen cast on his face, and he didn’t even lift his eyelids.
There was a time when I would have sat down next to him and asked softly, “Jared, can we talk?”
Then I’d get a cold “What is there to talk about?”
After that, I’d ramble on for a while, and he’d just grunt, roll over and go to sleep.
And then I’d lie there facing his back, my tears soaking the pillow.
Today, I didn’t move an inch toward him.
I grabbed a blanket and headed to the study.
I’d bought the foldable bed in the study the year before, thinking I could come here to cool off if we ever fought.
But I later realized my arguments with Jared never even counted as fights.
It takes two to quarrel, but he never rose to the bait.
I lay on the foldable bed, staring at the ceiling.
My phone lit up with a message from my mom, [Sweetheart, are you happy today?]
After typing and deleting “Fine,” I typed and sent [I’m fine, Mom.].
For the past ten years, I’ve always just told my mom ‘Fine.’
My messages to Jared have always been long, one paragraph after another.
Since he doesn’t reply to my first message, I send another, and when he still doesn’t reply, I call him.
When he hangs up, I wait for him to get off work and stand in his way at the door.
My friends say I’m being too much and he says I’m too clingy and noisy, even I wonder if I’m crazy.
How pathetic it is to chase someone for ten years.
But today, Cora’s words hit me like a bell ringing in my ear.
With a hum, something inside me shattered, not a broken heart but the cracked-open shell of my obsession.
That night, I slept better than ever.
No dreams, no tears, no getting up in the middle of the night to check if he’d texted back.
The next morning, when the alarm went off, I even froze for a second.
Turns out you can sleep soundly when you’re not waiting for someone’s reply.
The next day was Wednesday.
Every weekday morning before, I’d make breakfast for Jared and set it on the table.
He never said thank you. Sometimes he’d eat it, but more often than not, he’d just grab a cup of coffee and leave before breakfast.
That morning, I only made Cora’s breakfast, then knelt down to braid her hair.
When Jared came out, he glanced at the table.
There was only Cora’s little rabbit-shaped bowl and pink spoon on it.
He said nothing.
He took a carton of milk from the fridge, grabbed his briefcase, and left.
The sound of the door closing was exactly the same as it had been every single day for the past two thousand plus days.
But for the first time, I didn’t rush after him to say, “Drive safe.”
Cora looked up at me, “Mommy, you didn’t say goodbye to Daddy today.”
I smiled and pinched her cheek.
“Did you say goodbye to Daddy yourself?”
She shook her head, “Daddy left too fast.”
Yeah. He’s always left so fast.
And after chasing him for ten years, I’d never once caught up.