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EPISODE 90 Divorce?
Shifting Sands – Episode 90 🌊
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She stood there, staring at the heavy wood of the closed door, the click of the latch sounding like a final gavel.
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Her mind immediately raced backward, a bitter, familiar taste rising in her throat as she remembered the absolute chaos of when Andrew had come back from the dead. He had walked right into the middle of it, catching her flirting with Caleb.
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Caleb had run like a scalded dog. The sheer, exhausting mountain of work she and Andrew had to climb just to put the pieces of their life back together after that... they had fought so hard to get past it. 💔
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And yet... why did I keep that door open?
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She asked herself the question, and it felt like a physical blow. She *had* kept it open. A crack. A sliver. Just enough for Caleb to slip back through, resulting in that disastrous visit to his apartment...
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And then ending up on her own couch, half-naked under a blanket, letting things slide into completely inappropriate territory.
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She tried to rationalize it, her chest tight. *I was asleep,* she told herself. *I genuinely thought I was being woken up by a kiss from Andrew. I thought it was Andrew's hand moving over my breast.* ...
The memory of the sudden, freezing panic made her stomach turn—the way she had scrambled out of that blanket, frantically thrown her clothes back on, and slapped Caleb across the face.
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She had reacted. She had stopped it. If she told Andrew *that* part, it would be fine, wouldn't it? It proved she didn't want it. 🛑
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But the lie fell apart in her own head before she could even fully form it.
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*But I allowed myself to be in that situation,* she thought, the cold, hard truth settling heavy in her gut. *That situation would have never happened if I hadn't allowed it from the very start.*
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She leaned her head against the cool wall, the silence of the approaching Thanksgiving season pressing in around her. *I have to figure out why,* she thought, a knot of dread tightening inside her. *I have to figure out exactly why I allowed that to happen.* 🍁
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The thought hit her with the force of a physical blow—this wasn't the first time. Not by a long shot.
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Her mind, unbidden, reeled all the way back to Jean Paul. To that business trip. To that tiny, dangerous sliver of contact she had allowed to creep into her life when she was nineteen weeks pregnant.
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It was a pattern. A heavy, terrifying realization settled into her chest as she stared blankly at the wall. Why did she continually do this? Why did she keep drifting back toward this risky, self-destructive behavior? 🔍
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Her hands were shaking slightly. Carefully, she put Alice down in her crib, making sure the little one was settled and safe. 👶
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She needed a distraction, something to ground her, so she walked into the quiet kitchen and brewed herself a hot cup of tea. ☕
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Holding the warm mug between both hands, she stepped outside onto the deck. The crisp, pre-Thanksgiving air bit at her cheeks, but she barely felt it. She sat down on the outdoor furniture, looking out at the fading light, completely alone with her thoughts.
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*Why am I not happy with just Andrew?* ...
The question felt ugly, shameful, but she forced herself to face it. *I was pregnant, carrying his child, and I still did things with Jean Paul. And then, after everything we went through, after Andrew literally came back to life... I flirted with Caleb. More than once.* ...
*Even after the close calls, I still kept that damn door open, and look what happened. Look where it led.*
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She took a slow, burning sip of her tea, her eyes stinging. *What is wrong with me? Why am I like this? Why is Andrew not enough for me?* ...
She stopped herself, the steam from the mug rising between her face and the cold air. *Or... is he enough? Is it even about him at all? Maybe he is enough, but something inside of me is just broken.* 💔
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The silence of the late afternoon pressed in around her. She had a massive, terrifying mountain of introspection to do, and as she sat there on the deck, sipping her tea, she knew she couldn't keep running from the answers anymore.
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When the mug was empty, she just sat there, frozen in place, watching the waves roll in against the shore. An hour crept by in the fading light. 🌊
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The damp, autumn cold seeped straight through her clothes, right down to her bones, but the chill inside her was worse. She felt physically sick, a deep, hollow ache of disappointment in who she was and what she had allowed herself to become.
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Finally, she stood up. Her joints were stiff from the cold as she walked back inside, closing the door on the sound of the water.
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She walked up the stairs, her feet heavy on the steps, until she reached the guest bedroom door. She hesitated for a long second, her heart hammering against her ribs, before she finally raised a hand and knocked. 🚪
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Inside, there was a brief rustle of movement. Andrew got up and opened the door, his eyes meeting hers, unreadable and tired.
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She stepped into the room nervously, her hands trembling as she twiddled her fingers, unable to keep them still. Her posture was stiff, completely stripped of any casual warmth. She was being incredibly, painfully formal.
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"May I sit in this chair?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
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Andrew looked at the chair, then back at her, his voice flat but carrying a quiet weight. "It's your house too. You can do what you want."
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She sat down, the fabric of the chair offering no comfort as she forced herself to look at him. She didn't try to hide, didn't try to mince words. She just opened her heart and let the raw truth spill out.
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"I know you're asking yourself why I kept that sliver of contact up with Jean Paul and why I lied about that," she started, her voice shaking slightly but holding firm.
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"And... when I thought you were dead, true, there was no real thing between us... but me refusing to believe that you were still alive? That was on me. That was my own fault."
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She swallowed hard, her fingers interlocking tightly in her lap.
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"But keeping in contact with Caleb... even though there was nothing wrong with our actual communication... keeping it from you was wrong. And going over to his apartment was wrong. You're completely right, Andrew. I shouldn't have been there."
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"From the very start, when the wine was spilled on me... I should have gotten up. I should have gone to the restroom, cleaned myself up, and well... I should have just dashed right back over here, even if I was soaked in wine. But I didn't do that. That's entirely on me."
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She stopped, a tear finally cutting through the tension on her face as she looked at her husband, seeing the pain reflected in him that she had caused. 😢
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"And you're asking the exact same question right now that I've been asking myself out on that deck," she whispered, her chest tightening until it hurt. "Why do I keep doing this? Why do I keep hurting you?"
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The silence that followed her confession stretched out, thin and brittle, until it felt like it would snap under the weight of the room.
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Andrew didn't move for a long time. Then, he let out a long, slow breath—a deep, heavy sigh that seemed to drag right from the bottom of his chest.
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He reached down, carefully setting his empty beer glass on the nightstand at the side of the bed, the small *clink* of the glass against the wood sounding impossibly loud in the quiet room. 🍺
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He turned his head, looking at her fully. His eyes bore into hers, stripped of any anger, leaving only a profound, exhausted hollow.
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"It's a bigger question," he said, his voice dropping into a quiet, steady tone that cut deeper than any shout ever could. "You have to wrestle with yourself. Am I enough for you?"
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She flinched slightly, but he didn't look away.
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"Or do you think marrying me... an older man... was a mistake?" He paused, the words hanging between them in the chilly air of the guest room. "You think our love was a mistake?"
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He took another deep, shuddering breath, anchoring himself before he continued.
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"And you're right," he said, nodding slowly at her own words. "Why *do* you continue to have these slip-ups? And how many times am I just supposed to accept it and move on? I hope you don't have other slip-ups."
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He went completely still then, his gaze locked onto her face, waiting.
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The word *divorce* seemed to steal the remaining air right out of the room. 🛑
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Sarah looked at him through the blur of her tears, her chest heaving, but the frantic denial he might have expected didn't come. Instead, she looked entirely defeated, her shoulders sinking as the sheer, unyielding truth of everything he had said crashed down on her.
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She opened her mouth to speak, but her voice cracked, completely broken. She had to swallow hard, twisting her fingers together until her knuckles turned white, before she could find her breath.
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"I don't know how to answer that..." she whispered, a single, hot tear scrambling over her cheek and splashing onto her lap. "Because you're right. Everything you just said... you are completely right, Andrew."
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She looked away for a split second, staring at the floorboards, unable to hold his gaze under the weight of her own shame.
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"I sat out on that deck for an hour asking myself why I keep doing this. Why I keep hurting the man I love. And the truth is... I don't have the answer yet. I don't know what is wrong with me."
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She forced her eyes back up to meet his, her voice trembling violently. "If I look you in the eye right now and tell you I want to stay... it feels so incredibly selfish. Because I don't have a plan yet. I don't know how to guarantee I won't cause you more pain."
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She took a ragged, shuddering breath, her heart breaking in two as she looked at the exhaustion in his eyes.
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"I don't want to lose you, Andrew. The thought of a divorce... it destroys me. But I love you too much to sit here and ask you to keep waiting around, just waiting for me to break your heart again. You don't deserve that." 😭
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Andrew shifted on the bed, the mattress moving under his weight as he leaned forward, his gaze locking directly onto her.
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"We're dancing around and around," he said, his voice dropping into a raw, painful register. "The fact is, I love you, Sarah. I've always loved you, and I’ve always believed it could work for us. For *us*."
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He stopped, the lines on his face deepening as the reality of their age gap hung between them. 📈
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"But I know I'm a lot older than you. Eventually, I'll pass away, and you... you'll have years that you live without me after I'm gone. I used to think, *Well, I'll be dead. So, that's okay, whatever you want to do, because I'm dead and I want your happiness.*"
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He took a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes never wavering from hers.
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"But now I have to ask a simple question that I never thought I'd have to seriously ask again—especially of you." He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Do you want a divorce from me, Sarah?"
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The words left his lips and just hung there in the chilly air, heavy and suffocating. The tension in the guest room instantly increased threefold, pressing down on both of them like a physical weight.
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As Sarah looked at him, seeing the profound, unfiltered hurt radiating from his eyes, the dam finally broke. Tears began to flow freely down her face, hot and silent.
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But Andrew wasn't done. He kept his eyes locked on hers, the absolute exhaustion of the situation carrying through every syllable.
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"Because I can't keep having to deal with your slip-ups," he continued, his voice steady but laced with a quiet heartbreak. "And if you can't figure out why you're doing it... and you don't have a plan for stopping because you don't even understand why you're doing it in the first place... maybe we should get a divorce."
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Sarah sat there for a long time, the tears still damp on her cheeks, but the paralyzed shock in her face slowly shifted into something softer, something deeply humbled.
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"Andrew..." she started, her voice a fragile, trembling whisper. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold his soulful, hurting gaze.
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"First... about your photography... I am so incredibly proud of you. I know why you initially wanted to say no because of... everything here. But you *have* to go. Someone saw your work in Cannon Beach, they were so captivated by your style that they tracked you down, and they want to fly you across the country to shoot a book for their wedding..." 📷
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"Andrew, that is your dream. It's what you deserve. I’m so happy someone is finally recognizing how brilliant you are, even if the timing is... what it is. Please don't look at this as just an escape. Be proud of it. Because I am so proud of you." ❤️
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She took a ragged breath, her fingers tightening in her lap as she addressed the rest of his words.
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"And... thank you," she whispered, her eyes filling with a fresh wave of tears. "Thank you for calling my mom and dad. You're right. We honestly need this space. If we stay here right now, just staring at each other through the anger and the guilt, we'll just destroy whatever is left."
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"Having them here... having Dad well enough to travel and excited to try biscuits and gravy..." A tiny, heartbreaking smile broke through her tears for a split second before vanishing. "...it's a blessing. I need them right now. I need some real, honest daddy-daughter talks, and I need to sit down with my mom and just... figure out what is broken in my head." 🇬🇧
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She stood up slowly from the chair, her knees a little shaky. She didn't try to cross the room to him, respecting the boundary he had set on the bed, but she looked at him with an absolute, devastating sincerity.
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"Go to the East Coast, Andrew. Take those photos. Create something beautiful. And I promise you... I will use every single second of these two weeks to do the work. I will find the answers to those questions. And when you get back... I’ll go on that walk with you, and I’ll give you the answer you deserve." 🌲
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Andrew cleared his throat, the sound rough and dry in the quiet of the guest room. Finally, he thought, *she gets it*. It had come to a point where she had to figure out exactly what she wanted.
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He took a deep, heavy breath. There was one final, painful truth he had to admit before going back to bed and resting up for his early morning flight.
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He looked at her, and then his gaze dropped to the floorboards. His head stayed down, a posture that was completely unusual for him; he had always been a direct, forward person.
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"I'd like to say I have faith in our marriage at this point... that it can get past this," he said, his voice dropping into a flat, exhausted whisper. "But for me... for me, I just don't think you really care about me enough. Love me enough. Understand me enough... to want to just save our marriage."
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He didn't lift his head as he finished. "I'll be thinking about it on my trip, too. Respectfully... please leave me to rest. I'll be leaving at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow."
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The words were like a physical blow. The tears flowed freely down Sarah's face now, the quiet weeping giving way to open crying and heavy, trembling sobs. She moved blindly through the blur of her tears, stepped out of the guest room, and pulled the door shut behind her. 🚪
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She walked out onto the deck where her tea had gone completely cold, closing the deck door behind her and turning off the outside light, engulfing herself in the crisp, late-autumn darkness.
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She leaned against the railing, her chest heaving as she wept into the silence of the night. *I didn't want this,* she thought, the despair threatening to consume her completely. *I didn't want to do this to us.* 🌌
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Inside, back in the quiet safety of the guest bed, Andrew stared up at the dark ceiling, the echo of her sobs fading from the hallway. He closed his eyes, the sheer exhaustion of the last few years washing over him.
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Their marriage had been rough. They had gone through so much stuff... so many mountains climbed, so many fractures repaired. But as he lay there waiting for the early morning sun to call him away to the East Coast, he knew that this time, the mountain was entirely hers to climb. He eventually fell asleep while she was still out on the deck. 🛌
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She stayed out there for what felt like hours. As the ocean waves crashed, she thought about how things had gone completely pear-shaped, and how she had to find a way to explain her actions when her love had always been only for Andrew.
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When the cold finally became too much, she went inside. On her way to the master bedroom, she just stopped and looked at the guest room door, before continuing down the hall.
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She didn't even bother to brush her teeth; it was entirely unlike her, but she just curled up in bed, pulled two pillows to where Andrew would have been if this hadn't happened, cuddled them tightly, and fell asleep. 🛌💤
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Then, the morning came. It was 4:30 in the morning. ⏰
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She woke up and began looking for a clean set of clothes, but when she caught her reflection, she looked even worse than she had the night before.
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She came out of the bedroom, her heart hammering against her ribs as she caught sight of Andrew in the dim morning light. He was already by the door, his bags all packed and lined up, ready for the long drive down to Portland to catch his flight. 🧳
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The sight of those bags made her stomach do a nervous flip, but she forced herself to keep her voice steady.
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"Good morning," she said softly, her eyes tracing the tired lines of his face. "I hope you have a safe flight. Can I... I'll make you some coffee."
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Before he could even answer, she stirred herself into motion, crossing the quiet room over to the kitchen counter and starting a pot brewing.
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The mechanical sounds of the machine filling the silence felt like a lifeline. She turned back to him, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. "Do you have time for just one cup?" ☕
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Andrew took a deep, heavy breath, looking at the dark liquid beginning to drip into the carafe.
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"Yes," he said, his voice flat but not entirely cold. He glanced toward the hallway. "And since Alice is asleep... I know she'll miss me. But to be honest, I just don't have the energy to see her cute face right now."
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He looked down, his shoulder shifting slightly under his jacket. "I hope she'll be distracted by your parents."
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Sarah felt a sharp pang of sorrow in her chest, knowing he was leaving because of the mess she had made, missing out on his own little girl.
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"I know," she replied quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "I'll show her pictures of you while you're gone. And... I am excited about my parents visiting. I haven't seen my father in so long. I'll show him everything." 🗺️
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She turned back to the counter, pouring the fresh, steaming coffee into a mug, and handed it over to him.
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Andrew took it, the warmth of the ceramic passing between their fingers, and took a slow sip. Watching him drink, a tiny, fragile sense of relief washed over Sarah.
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It was one small bit of normalness—a quiet morning routine they had shared a thousand times before. At least they could go out on this, a brief moment of peace instead of slamming doors. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, just grateful for this simple conversation while he sipped his coffee. ☕🌅
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And then, breaking the quiet morning calm, her phone suddenly rang. 📱💥
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She hadn't even taken it to bed with her last night; it was sitting right there on the kitchen counter, lighting up the dark wood.
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Andrew’s eyes dropped to the glowing screen on the counter. He stretched out his hand, picking up the device, his thumb tracing the glass as he read the contact name. It was the exact secret name she had assigned to Caleb—the one she had confessed to using just last night.
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The small bit of normalness they had just shared evaporated instantly, leaving the kitchen freezing cold. Andrew went completely silent. He didn't yell. He didn't glare. He just pressed the answer button, lifted the receiver to his ear, and spoke with a terrifying, hollow calm.
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"Hello, Caleb," Andrew said, his voice completely level. "Um, I have to go to the airport now. Um, but I'll let you speak with her." 📞
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Without another word, he handed the vibrating phone across the counter to Sarah. He didn't wait to see her reaction. He turned on his heel, grabbed his packed bags, and walked straight out the front door, the heavy click of the latch echoing through the quiet house. 🚪💨
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Sarah stood there, entirely frozen, the phone heavy in her hand. She was utterly confused and terrified—why on earth was Caleb calling her at 4:30 in the morning? Panic seized her chest, and she quickly slammed the end-call button, her mind racing at a million miles an hour.
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*Crap,* she thought, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. *He thinks I planned this. It looks... it looks exactly as if I planned this.* ...
The horror of the timing settled deep into her gut. Andrew was going to think she was just waiting for him to clear out, waiting for his plane to take off so she could be alone with Caleb again. It looked like the ultimate betrayal, wrapped up in a neat little bow.
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"No, no, no," she whispered, desperation taking over.
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She needed to explain to him right now that in all the absolute chaos and tears of yesterday, she simply hadn't blocked his number yet. She hadn't even touched her phone after their conversation last night.
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Spurred by pure panic, she rushed toward the door in her sweats, tearing it open and running out into the biting morning air. But she was too late. All she saw was the red glow of his taillights disappearing down the driveway as he drove away into the dark. 🚗💨
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The tears fell freely down her face, blinding her as she rushed back inside the house. Shaking violently, she immediately dialed Andrew's number, pressing the phone to her ear, praying he would pick up.
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*Ring... ring...* ...
It went straight to voicemail. 📴🌧️
