Almost

It was a beautiful day. The sun shone through gently scattered clouds, the ocean breeze blew against my skin, cooling me just enough so that the temperature felt perfect, and the sand beneath where I laid on my favorite towel contoured perfectly around my body. Children were laughing and splashing in the ocean, chasing the waves and being chased by them. It was an almost perfect scene.

Almost perfect isn't perfect though, and I can't help but dwell on the imperfections of that day and be saddened by the impossibility of fairy tales. Never again will my family be intact, enjoying a lovely day at the beach in the blissful happiness I'd always imagined. Though, if I'm honest with myself, we never really have - at least not until we separated.

There is a such a profound sadness in knowing that the only reason my husband and I were ever able to have the kind of wonderful vacation we should have been having for the past nine years is because I left him... Well, almost. I haven't fully left yet, but we are separate.

Almost. It's a terrible word. It's a word that lets you know that you've fallen short. But it's the closest I'll ever come to happy.