Last night, I let you go. After seventy-two days, it was about time.

I fought to hold on, though. Parts of me scream when I think about how you promised me that you were coming back home. When I think about how I waited in the airport for five hours, watching every person that stepped off the plane, examining faces to see if one of them was you.

The last words I heard you say to me were "I'm sorry."

If I'd known then that you slept with my friend or that you were sleeping with the slut of the online world, Amy, I'd have laughed in your ear. I'd have let you go then with the sound of my hurt laughter taking up the phone line behind you. I'd have walked away and filed the papers myself that would make me my own woman, instead of your wife.

It didn't turn out that way, though, did it? You kept on lying to me, making me feel like every single thing that ever happened was my fault. That I wasn't enough of a wife or a woman to hold on to such a prize of man such as yourself. Making me think that if I'd only done one little thing differently, you would have stepped off the DC-10 and back into my life where things would have gone on in the same limping, pained fashion that they did before.

You lied to me. You walked out. You took yourself away from me as if I was a child and you needed to reprimand me for talking back. You slept with my -best friend- and then covered it up with a pack of lies so thick that it could have been watertight.

And you know what? I still love you, despite all of it. If that makes me weak and mentally unstable, I don't care anymore. I hate myself every minute of every day for being so devoted, but I still love you.

It's because of this that I'm going on with my life without you. I'm letting you go on with your own problems, and one day -- maybe soon -- you're going to find out that all I needed was a push off the cliff I was dancing on. One push and I could have flown and carried you with me.

Now I'm going to fly alone, without your dead weight at my side.

The sky is finally mine.

Your wife,