21 - The Great Vanishing Act

In an open marriage, you expect new people to come into your life—hell, that’s kind of the point. But the flip side is: people also leave. Some disappearances barely register. Especially the ones where you just met for a quick parking lot adventure and never bothered to learn their last name.

Take Pablo, for example. He somehow managed to take longer to get a basic test result than German politicians take to negotiate a coalition agreement. I had already mentally archived him under “lost cause” when—surprise!—a shiny new test result suddenly appeared in my inbox.

For a full week, he was all fired up, sending dick pics and hot messages like a teenage boy home alone with internet and no parental controls.

We set a date. He offered to book a hotel.

And then—poof!—gone.

I was mildly annoyed but mostly curious. What excuse would he come up with? I’d already given up hope for a half-decent lie (I would’ve even settled for an entertaining one) when, out of the blue, I received this gem:

“Hey sweetie, hope you’re doing well. Haven’t heard from you in ages.”

For a few seconds, I was genuinely speechless.

Was Pablo dealing with an actual memory disorder?

He couldn’t possibly be serious—right?

Trying not to be a jerk, I replied with my sincerest apology:

“I’m truly sorry for not getting back to you after you ghosted me five weeks ago without cancelling our date. But hey, the Tinder buffet is pretty full. No hard feelings, just new, hard, and on-time options.”

When guys like Pablo pull a disappearing act and vanish as quickly as they appeared, it’s painless. Forgettable, even.

But not all goodbyes feel that easy. You may remember I’ve hinted before that things with Giovanni were getting more difficult. It wasn’t just the physical distance—it was emotional too. A kind of disconnect that no message, no visit, no effort could bridge anymore. The man who once gave me the courage to live life on my terms… just wasn’t there anymore. Occasionally I wonder if he was a mirage.

And while I truly believe that a network of love is more resilient than any one person, there came a point when I had to admit this relationship was hurting more than it was giving me.

I made the decision alone, in my garden.

And not even an hour later, the mister looked at me and asked, “Anything new from Giovanni?” I nearly burst into tears. The look on his face told me he was just as lost as I was. Being the wonderful man he is, he gently asked if I wanted to talk about it.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t want to cry on my husband’s shoulder because I’d let go of someone else I cared deeply about—for my sake. So I did what I always do when I don't have the time or the place to cry because I have to cook, do the laundry, remember to be emotionally stable, and pretend I’m not three steps away from crying into the dishwasher: I held it together. I kept it in.

Until we sat down in front of the TV later that evening, and the hubby “accidentally” picked the one Tom Hanks film guaranteed to break me into a thousand soggy pieces. Tom Thanks. If you ever want to cry in secret about something and cover it up, I highly recommend “A Man Called Otto".

It’s a strange thing, grieving a breakup while being married to the love of your life. But this, too—this messy, contradictory, gut-punch of a feeling—apparently comes with the territory of our new kind of love.