He Told Me He Loved Me

He told me he loved me…

and I laid on an ultrasound table as they told me my baby’s heart had stopped beating.

I drove myself home.

He told me he loved me…

and I went to the hospital alone.

I signed paperwork alone.

I sat in waiting rooms alone.

I carried fear in my chest alone — the kind that tightens your throat and makes time slow down.

He told me he loved me…

and I ate dinner alone.

I waited for whenever he decided to come home.

I learned how to keep food warm without expecting company.

I learned how to measure time in headlights and excuses.

He told me he loved me…

and I went to bed alone.

I stared at the ceiling long after the house went quiet.

I listened for a door that didn’t open.

I learned how to fall asleep without feeling chosen.

He told me he loved me…

and I spent weekends alone.

I showed up to events by myself.

I made excuses for empty seats.

I learned how to smile through questions I didn’t have answers for.

He told me he loved me…

and I navigated pregnancies, losses, appointments, and unanswered questions by myself.

I learned how to be strong because there was no other option.

I learned how to dissociate just enough to survive.

I learned how to stop expecting support so I wouldn’t be crushed by its absence.

He told me he loved me…

and I managed the house, the bills, the plans, the emergencies, the everything.

I carried mental load like it was oxygen.

I kept things together because someone had to.

I became dependable because being disappointed over and over was exhausting.

He told me he loved me…

and when things fell apart, I cleaned them up.

I covered.

I compensated.

I protected stories that weren’t mine to protect.

I stayed quiet.

I stayed longer than I should have — because I thought love meant endurance.

And then one day, love finally showed up.

It didn’t come with apologies.

It didn’t come with promises.

It didn’t come with words at all.

It came with a tiny hand wrapped around my finger.

With eyes that look for me in every room.

With a life that depends on me — not to disappear, but to stay.

This is what love looks like.

Showing up.

Choosing presence.

Being safe.

Being steady.

This is love that doesn’t ask me to shrink, wait, or hope.

This is love that doesn’t disappear when things get hard.

This is love that doesn’t need convincing.

His love was something I kept trying to prove.

Hers simply exists.

Love is not meant to hurt.

It is not something you’re supposed to earn through silence, endurance, or self-abandonment.

Love is something you are meant to respect in order to keep — through presence, care, and consistency.

Real love does not ask you to disappear.

It does not make you wait in fear or carry grief alone.

It stays.

It shows up.

And it does not require you to lose yourself to be worthy of it.