I once thought I would marry Abigail. She was my whole world — the only one who stayed by my side when I lost my entire family in a car accident. We had been in love since we were 18, standing by each other through hardship, ever since her parents kicked her out for not accepting her sexuality. I sold everything I had to support us, and eventually, I joined the military so I could give us a future.

I was deployed to Afghanistan. In those long nights on the brutal battlefield, when death breathed down my neck, I thought only of her. Abigail’s face was what kept me standing.

But when I came home, I was met with emptiness.

No one was at the airport. When I got to the apartment, I heard crying from the bathroom. Abigail was there, holding a positive pregnancy test. I asked how far along she was. “A month,” she whispered. I collapsed.

A month ago, I was still in the battlefield, clinging to the image of the woman I loved as my reason to survive. Meanwhile, she was in another man’s arms.

I screamed. I destroyed things. I never laid a hand on her, but the rage in me was enough to terrify Abigail. The next morning, I returned to the ruined apartment and found only a note — she had left because she was afraid of me.

I understood. But that didn’t lessen the pain. She was everything I had left — and now she was gone too.

I spiraled. I drank to forget. PTSD from the war tormented me every night. If it hadn’t been for Mark — my closest friend from service — I don’t think I would’ve made it. He took me into his home, never judging me, just quietly helping me sober up and rebuild my life.

Time passed. Slowly, I began to find myself again.

Then fate brought Abigail back. I saw her at the mall, holding hands with that man — the father of the child. She looked frail, desperate. Her hands gripped a man who clearly didn’t care about her. When our eyes met, I saw a silent plea for help.

That night, she texted me. Apologized. Said she wished she’d never betrayed me. She told me everything: the man was controlling, abusive. She felt trapped in a nightmare. I forgave her. We met at a café. She cried. I still loved her — but it wasn’t the same love.

She wanted to come back. I said no. Not because I didn’t care, but because I knew some things couldn’t return to how they were. I just wanted to help her escape him — one last time.

I started following the man — Darren. I learned his schedule. He was predictable. I followed him to the gym, the bar. I waited until he was drunk, then pulled him into an alley behind the bar. I didn’t hold back. I poured years of pain, betrayal, and buried rage into every blow.

He collapsed. I left him in that alley like a discarded shell.

Abigail never contacted me after that. And I didn’t reach out either. I had done what I needed to do — not for revenge, but out of love. A love no longer held onto to possess, but to protect.

I kept going. The nightmares still came. The loss of Abigail still hurt. But I learned to live with it.

One afternoon at the park, I saw a small family playing. Their laughter shone like sunlight. Sadness swelled in my chest — but so did something else: hope. Maybe someday, I could have something like that too.

Not with Abigail, but with someone else — when I had finally become whole again.