What's my fault?

My favorite part of the week is always the road trip. For eight months out of the year, I’m lucky enough to have at least one glorious, hour-long, kid-free drive. Just me, the windows down, music blasting, a joint in hand, and the open road ahead. It’s my time to decompress, overanalyze everything gnawing at my mind, and wrestle with those lingering unresolved issues.

It feels like I’m living the Maren Morris song "My Church"—except I’m in a pickup truck, and I have zero desire to revisit the reckless days of my youth.

This week, though, hit differently. After a drawn-out argument with "he who must not be named" (yes, in my best Voldemort voice), I was raw. Barely holding it together, I hit the road, lit up, and hoped for some relief.

But this time, the smoke didn’t work its magic. The argument clung to me like a weight I couldn’t shake. My mind spiraled: What in all of this is my fault? Am I the problem? The common denominator? Did I somehow cause this? Is his anger justified? Is it me—who I am—that brought us to this point?

I couldn’t ignore the one fact I kept circling back to: He stood by me when I wasn’t okay. When I was in pieces after that trial with my ex. He stood there, solid, while I crumbled.

So does he have a right to be angry now, just because I refuse to stand by him in this?

And then, as the miles ticked by, it hit me: It’s not the same. 

When I was drowning in my own hell, I still showed up. I showed up for him, for our kids, for our family, for our home. I still made dinner, folded laundry, kept the house running. I still worked, paid the bills, attended the kids' plays, and made sure our schedules didn’t fall apart. Sure, I cried—a lot. I slept too much and zoned out whenever I wasn’t tackling my responsibilities. But I never stopped showing up.

I wasn’t breaking promises.

I wasn’t walking away from our life.

I wasn’t neglecting my responsibilities as a parent or partner.

I wasn’t lying, disrespecting, or breaking trust.

I wasn’t tearing him apart with accusations or manipulation.

So yeah, maybe I’m the one who ended things. But let’s be real—he’s the one who drove me there.