Chapter 18
My parents discovered the truth about our dysfunctional marriage only after everything fell apart.
My mother called, her voice trembling with anger and sadness. “Why didn’t you tell us? All these years… oh, Liv.”
I was sitting on my tiny balcony, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink. “What would you have done, Mom? Confronted him? Started a family feud? It’s over now. Can we just never mention his name again?”
I took a full week off work, alternating between sleeping for twelve hours straight and sitting at the edge of the ocean. Sometimes I’d bring a book but never open it. Sometimes I’d bring lunch but never eat it. I just sat, watching the endless blue. meet the endless blue, letting my mind empty itself of years of accumulated pain. The rhythmic waves soothed me, washing away years of self–doubt with each. surge and retreat. The same ocean that had almost claimed my life was now healing it, one tide at a time.
I no longer needed to apologize for surviving.
After all, Ethan wasn’t the only one whose life had been derailed by tragedy. Mine had been too–first by the accident, then by the marriage that followed. One morning, I woke up and realized I hadn’t thought about Ethan at all the previous day. The realization made me smile into my pillow, a small victory but a significant one.
When I returned to the coffee shop after my week away, Donna greeted me with an awkward hug.
“You okay?” she asked, concern etched on her face. “That was quite a scene.” I nodded, tying my apron. “Fine. Actually better than fine.”
She hesitated, then said, “He quit, you know. That guy.”
“Good,” I said, relieved I wouldn’t have to face him every day.
Donna continued, lowering her voice even though the shop was empty. “His mother came to get him. Elegant woman, looked like she stepped out of a magazine. They had a serious argument right outside. He…” she paused, clearly. unsure if she should
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continue, “he actually knelt down on the sidewalk, begging her for something. I
couldn’t hear what, but she kept shaking her head.”
These details meant nothing to me–like hearing gossip about characters in a TV show I no longer watched.
Donna reached under the counter and handed me a cream–colored envelope. “He left this for you.”
I stared at the expensive stationery, turned it over in my hands, felt the weight of it. My name was written on the front in Ethan’s distinctive handwriting, the same handwriting I’d seen on birthday cards and grocery lists and passive–aggressive notes left on the fridge.
“Throw it away,” I said, handing it back to her. “I’ve heard everything he has to
say.”
Donna looked surprised but took the envelope. “You sure? Seems important.” “I’m sure,” I said, and I was. Whatever justifications or apologies or declarations it
contained wouldn’t change anything. The time for words between us had long passed.
After that day, my life at the coffee shop returned to its peaceful rhythm. I was promoted to shift supervisor, then assistant manager. I started dating casually- nothing serious, just dinner or movies or beach walks with men who had no
connection to my past.
With my coworkers‘ encouragement, I even signed up for scuba diving lessons, finally confronting my deepest water–related fears. The first time I went under, panic seized me so completely that I shot back to the surface, gasping and trembling. But the instructor, a patient woman named Sylvia with weathered skin and kind eyes, just nodded. “That’s normal,” she said. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” And we did. And the next day. And the day after that.
The photo Sylvia took of me emerging from the water after my certification dive, grinning ear to ear and flashing a triumphant thumbs–up, delighted my parents when I sent it.
My father texted back immediately: [Look at my brave girl. For a while I was afraid
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you’d never come home.]
I didn’t keep him waiting long for an answer. As summer ended, with Donna’s blessing and a head full of ideas, I resigned from Tide & Grounds and flew back to
New York.
This time, I had a clear purpose–opening my own coffee shop.
With a small business loan and help from my parents (which I insisted on paying back, despite their protests), I found a perfect corner location not far from my parents‘ home in Brooklyn Heights. I named it “Marina Blue.”
Walking inside, customers were immediately drawn to the large photograph of the San Diego coastline I’d taken myself–the ocean stretching endlessly toward the horizon, the place that had taught me how to breathe again. For me, the name represented both my healing journey and my new identity. “Marina” for the peaceful harbor I’d found after years adrift in a stormy sea, and “Blue” for the vast
waters that had washed away my fear. It was also a tribute to the California coastline where I’d rebuilt myself. Everyone understood it was simply a beautiful name describing a peaceful ocean retreat, a place of calm in the city’s chaos. But one visitor misunderstood entirely.
