I came to the island searching for peace, a fresh start to heal from my past. Instead, I found HIM—charming, attentive, and everything I didn’t know I needed. But just when I started to believe in new beginnings, a single moment shattered it all.

Even though I’d spent decades there, my living room felt like a stranger’s space. At 55, I stared at the open suitcase, wondering how my life had come to this.
“How did we get here?” I asked the chipped “Forever & Always” cup in my hand before tossing it aside.

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I ran my hand along the couch. “Goodbye to Sunday coffee and pizza fights.”

Memories buzzed in my mind, unwelcome guests I couldn’t evict. In the bedroom, the emptiness hit harder. The other side of the bed stared back at me like an accusation.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered. “It wasn’t all my fault.”

Packing became a scavenger hunt for things that still mattered. The laptop sat on my desk like a beacon.
“At least you stuck around,” I said, patting it.

For illustration purposes only |

After two years of work, my novel was inside. It wasn’t finished, but it was mine—proof I wasn’t entirely lost.

Then, Lana’s email came:

“Creative retreat. Warm island. Fresh start. Wine.”

“Of course, wine,” I laughed.

Lana had always been good at making disasters sound appealing. The idea felt reckless, but wasn’t that the point?