Should I Stay or Should I Go? Who Should I Ask?-Part 2

If you missed Part 1 (The Lady in the Red Dress), click here to read it first to understand how this storm began.

A few months passed before the door to my office opened again.

There was no appointment booked.

Just the light knock, the slow turn of the handle, and the heavy thud of a handbag being dropped onto the leather chair opposite my desk.

Lenar sat down.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.

She looked different.

Not dramatically different.

There was no new hairstyle, no obvious weight loss, no visible sign that she had rebuilt her life.

She simply looked tired.

Not the acute, frantic exhaustion of someone caught in the middle of a storm.

This was different.

It was the slow, dull weariness of someone who had survived the storm and had finally discovered that the silence afterwards could be just as difficult.

She pulled her hair back, smoothed her skirt and rested both hands in her lap.

“I left,” she said.

I watched her carefully.

In my work, the first declaration is rarely the hardest part.

It is what comes after.

The silence.

The hesitation.

The things people say only after they realise that nobody is going to judge them for saying them.

“How are things?” I asked.

She looked towards the window.

“Messy.”

She smiled faintly.

“It was a Tuesday, I think.”

She paused.

“Ciga had packed his bags for his annual trip back to Bassa, just like he always did. I waited until I heard his car leave the street.”

She looked down at her hands.

“My sister came later with her boot empty. We put in whatever we could. Mostly my daughter's things. Some clothes. My papers. A few things from the kitchen.”

“Did you take any furniture?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

She thought about it.

“Maybe because taking furniture would have made it feel like I was moving out permanently.”

“But you were leaving.”

“I know.”

She looked at me.

“But there is a difference between leaving a house and admitting to yourself that you may never live there again.”

She looked back towards the window.

“I locked the door and gave the spare keys to the estate guard.”

No dramatic confrontation.

No screaming.

No slammed doors.

No final speech.

Just a woman quietly removing herself from a life she had once believed would last.

THE HOUSE WITHOUT CIGA

“How has it been at your sister's?”

Lenar sighed.

“Hard.”

Her sister's house was smaller.

The children fought over space.

Her daughter kept asking questions.

Why weren't they sleeping in her room anymore?

Why wasn't Daddy driving them to school?

Why were their clothes still in laundry bags?

When were they going home?

That last question had become the hardest.

“She asked me last week, ‘Mummy, where are we going back home?’”

“What did you tell her?”

Lenar looked down.

“I said, ‘We are home.’”

“And did she believe you?”

“No.”

She smiled sadly.

“Children know when adults are lying to themselves.”

She went quiet.

Then she said:

“I thought leaving the house would make me breathe again.”

“Did it?”

“At first.”

“And now?”

She shook her head.

“Now I breathe differently.”

I waited.

“I thought the anxiety was Ciga.”

She swallowed.

“I thought if I got away from him, everything inside me would become quiet.”

“And it didn't?”

“No.”

She laughed softly, but there was no humour in it.

“I am still checking my phone every ten minutes.”

“Waiting for him?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

She hesitated.

“A message.”

“What kind of message?”

“I don't know.”

“An apology?”

“Maybe.”

“A declaration that he wants you back?”

She looked at me.

“Maybe.”

“Anger?”

She looked down.

“Maybe.”

I didn't say anything.

She continued.

“The strange thing is that when he doesn't call, I feel rejected. When he does call, I feel anxious.”

She shook her head.

“How can one person make you feel both things when he isn't even in the room?”

“Perhaps,” I said, “the person isn't the only thing you're reacting to.”

She looked at me.

“What does that mean?”

“It means sometimes we continue a relationship inside our minds long after we have physically left it.”

She became quiet.

Then she whispered:

“That's exactly what I'm doing.”

THE PART OF THE STORY SHE HAD NOT EXPECTED

Lenar leaned forward.

“I am beginning to see something I didn't want to see.”

“What?”

“I wasn't completely innocent.”

She said it carefully, as though the sentence itself frightened her.

“I blamed Ciga for almost everything.”

She looked at her hands.

“If he didn't call, I said he didn't care.”

“If he called too much, I said he was controlling.”

“If he made a decision without me, I said he didn't respect me.”

“If he asked me what I wanted, sometimes I said, ‘You should know.’”

She looked up.

“And when he guessed wrong, I got angry.”

I remained silent.

“I expected him to make me feel secure.”

She took a breath.

“I expected him to fix my confidence.”

Another pause.

“I expected him to know when I was unhappy without me saying it.”

She laughed bitterly.

“I wanted him to be my husband, best friend, emotional support system, financial safety net, mind reader and sometimes my punching bag.”

She stopped.

“I didn't realise how much I was asking one person to carry.”

“Does that mean Ciga did nothing wrong?”

She looked at me sharply.

“No.”

The answer came immediately.

“No. Absolutely not.”

And there it was.

The other side of the mirror.

“I can admit my part without pretending he didn't have one.”

She sat back.

“He could shut me out for days.”

“He could become cold when I needed him to talk.”

“He made decisions and told me afterwards.”

“And sometimes when I tried to talk, he made me feel like I was creating problems that weren't there.”

She swallowed.

“So yes, I had my patterns.”

“But so did he.”

I nodded.

“That distinction matters.”

“Why?”

“Because taking responsibility for your behaviour should not become taking responsibility for everything that happened to you.”

She stared at me for a moment.

“I needed to hear that.”

THEN CIGA DID SOMETHING SHE DIDN'T EXPECT

A week later, Ciga called.

Not her.

Me.

I wasn't surprised that he eventually reached out.

I was surprised by what he wanted.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Has she told you that she left because I refused to change?”

I paused.

“She has told me her experience.”

He was quiet.

Then he said:

“That's not exactly what happened.”

I didn't respond.

“I know I wasn't easy to live with,” he continued.

His voice sounded different from the Ciga Lenar had described.

Less defensive.

More tired.

“But I want to know if she has told you about the times I tried.”

I said nothing.

“I'm not calling to defend myself.”

“Then why are you calling?”

Another silence.

“I want to know whether leaving means she has already decided the marriage is over.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“That is something you need to ask her.”

“I've tried.”

“And?”

“She doesn't answer.”

That surprised me.

“She answers,” he said.

“But she doesn't answer the question.”

“What question?”

“‘Do you still want this marriage?’”

He stopped.

“She talks about healing. She talks about needing space. She talks about finding herself.”

His voice dropped.

“But she won't tell me whether there is still an us.”

I didn't answer immediately.

Then he said something I wasn't expecting.

“I think I have been waiting for her to come back.”

“And now?”

“I don't know.”

“What changed?”

“She stopped being the only person I blamed.”

There was silence on the line.

Then he said:

“I have been thinking about my own part too.”

THE DANGEROUS THING ABOUT SELF-AWARENESS

When Lenar returned to my office, I didn't immediately tell her about Ciga's call.

Instead, I asked:

“Do you want him back?”

She stared at me.

“I don't know.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“It is the only honest one I have.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss the marriage?”

She hesitated.

“I miss what I thought the marriage would become.”

That was different.

“Do you miss Ciga?”

“Yes.”

“Even after everything?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She looked down.

“Because he wasn't only the man who hurt me.”

She took a breath.

“He was also the man who knew how I took my tea.”

A faint smile.

“The man who knew my mother's birthday without checking.”

“The man who stayed awake when our daughter had malaria.”

“The man who would drive across town because I forgot something at the office.”

She looked towards the window.

“He could be incredibly difficult.”

Then she whispered:

“But he could also be incredibly kind.”

I watched her carefully.

This was no longer a simple story.

Good people can hurt each other.

People who love each other can damage each other.

And sometimes two people can become unhappy together without either one being entirely the villain.

HER DAUGHTER ASKED THE QUESTION

That evening, Lenar called me.

Her voice sounded different.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“My daughter asked me something today.”

“What?”

“She asked if Daddy was a bad person.”

I said nothing.

“She said, ‘If Daddy is bad, why do you still talk about him?’”

Lenar's voice cracked.

“I didn't know what to say.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her Daddy wasn't a bad person.”

“And then?”

“She asked why I left.”

Lenar went quiet.

“What did you say?”

“I said sometimes two people love each other and still don't know how to live together.”

There was silence.

“That was all?”

“No.”

“What else?”

She took a breath.

“I told her that adults sometimes have things they need to fix inside themselves.”

“And what did she say?”

Lenar laughed softly.

“She said, ‘Are you fixing yourself so you can go back to Daddy?’”

I smiled despite myself.

“And what did you say?”

“I said I don't know.”

Then her voice became very quiet.

“But after I hung up, I realised something.”

“What?”

“I had been telling myself I left to find myself.”

She paused.

“But maybe I also left because I wanted him to finally realise what he would lose.”

There it was.

The truth she had not yet been willing to say.

“I wanted him to chase me.”

THE QUESTION SHE HAD BEEN AVOIDING

“Did he?”

“No.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“Small.”

“Why?”

“Because some part of me believed that if he really loved me, he would come and fight for me.”

She wiped her eyes.

“But he didn't.”

“Perhaps he was respecting your decision.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or perhaps he was tired.”

She looked at me.

“That's the part that scares me.”

“What?”

“That maybe he didn't come after me because he finally accepted that I was right to leave.”

She looked away.

“And another part of me is afraid that if he doesn't fight for me, I'll have to accept that this marriage may actually be over.”

WHO SHOULD SHE ASK?

She had been asking everyone.

Her sister said:

“Don't go back. You finally have peace.”

Her mother said:

“Marriage is not easy. Everybody has problems.”

Her closest friend said:

“Leave before you waste another five years.”

Another friend said:

“Give him another chance. You have a child.”

Someone at church told her:

“Pray and submit.”

Someone else told her:

“Never go back to a place that broke you.”

Everyone had an opinion.

Everyone had a story.

Everyone had an answer.

But nobody had to live her life.

One evening, Lenar sat alone in her sister's living room after everyone had gone to bed.

Her daughter was asleep.

The television was off.

Her phone lay beside her.

Ciga's name was still in her contacts.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then she asked herself a question she had never really asked before.

Not:

Should I stay?

Not:

Should I go?

But:

Who should I ask?

Her sister?

Her mother?

Her pastor?

Her friends?

Her daughter?

Ciga?

Me?

Or herself?

And then another question came.

Perhaps the harder one.

How do I know whether I am deciding with wisdom, or simply from pain?

She didn't have an answer.

Not yet.

THE MESSAGE

At 11:47 that night, her phone lit up.

Ciga.

She stared at the screen.

She almost didn't open it.

Then she did.

There were only two lines.

“Can we talk? Not about coming back. Not about divorce. Just talk.”

She read it twice.

Then a third time.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.

She typed:

“What do you want to talk about?”

She deleted it.

She typed again:

“I don't think I'm ready.”

Deleted.

She finally put the phone down.

Five minutes later, she picked it up again.

The message was still there.

She stared at his name.

For months, she had wanted him to call.

Now that he had, she was afraid of what might happen if she answered.

Because maybe the conversation would lead to reconciliation.

Maybe it would lead to divorce.

Maybe he would say exactly what she wanted to hear.

Maybe he would say something she didn't want to hear.

Or maybe, for the first time, they would both tell the truth.

She put the phone face down.

Then turned it over again.

The screen had gone dark.

But the question hadn't.

Should I stay?

Should I go?

And perhaps the more difficult question was:

If I go back, am I going back to Ciga, or going back to the version of myself I was before I left?

Lenar picked up the phone.

Her finger moved towards his name.

And stopped.

I never learned whether she called that night.

Not immediately.

Some decisions are too important to be made simply because the silence has become uncomfortable.

And some marriages do not end when one person walks out of the door.

Sometimes the real ending, or the real beginning, comes much later.

When both people finally stop asking,

“Who was wrong?”

and begin asking,

“What did we become to each other?”

Lenar left her marriage believing distance would give her clarity.

Instead, distance has exposed questions she could not see while she was inside the marriage.

She has begun to recognise her own patterns without excusing Ciga's.

She has discovered that she still misses him.

Her daughter is beginning to understand that something has changed.

And Ciga, for the first time, may be looking honestly at his own part in what happened.

But now Lenar faces the question that may be harder than leaving:

If two people have both contributed to the destruction of a marriage, can they both contribute to rebuilding it?

And perhaps even more importantly:

How do you know whether going back is reconciliation, or simply returning to what is familiar?

Part 3 will bring Lenar and Ciga face-to-face with the conversation they have both been avoiding.

Because sometimes the hardest part isn't deciding whether to stay or go.

It is deciding who you will become if you stay, and who you will become if you leave.

To be continued...