For twenty years every August, my husband and I went on a vacation to the sea just the two of us — it was our tradition, our sacred time. This year, I booked that very hotel and packed our bags. A week before the trip, my husband sat down across from me in the kitchen and quietly said, “I’m going to the sea. But not with you…”

We got married twenty-three years ago. An ordinary family. Work, daily life, children. But we had this tradition — every August, we would spend two weeks by the sea. Just the two of us. No kids, no relatives.

It started in the third year of our marriage. We went for the first time, liked it, and decided to make it a yearly event. And we did. For twenty consecutive years. The same hotel on the coast. The same two weeks every August.

I always prepared for this trip in advance. A month ahead, I started planning. Booked the room, bought the tickets, packed our things. It was my holiday. Our holiday.

This year, I reserved the hotel in May. As usual. The same room with a view of the sea. Bought train tickets. Started packing two weeks ahead. Bought a new swimsuit, a summer dress. Imagined us strolling along the promenade, dining in that restaurant we always went to.

My husband behaved as usual. Didn’t talk much about the vacation, but I wasn’t surprised. He had always been reserved. I thought he was just tired, work, busy life.

A week before leaving, I got the suitcases out. Laid out clothes on the bed. His shirts, shorts, swim trunks. My dresses, cosmetics. Everything as usual.

In the evening, my husband came home from work. I set the table and invited him to dinner. He sat across from me. Silent. I talked about our holiday plans, the weather there, a new restaurant that had opened near the hotel.

He listened silently. Then he put down his fork. Looked at me. Said we need to talk.

I paused. He continued. Said he’s going to the sea. To that hotel. On those dates. But not with me.

I didn’t understand at first. Asked again. He slowly repeated. Going to the sea without me. With another woman. A colleague from work. They’ve been together for six months. He had wanted to tell me for a long time but didn’t dare. But now he decided.

I sat there, looking at him. He kept talking. That he was tired of our marriage. That he felt trapped. That this woman is younger, she’s interesting. That he wants to spend the vacation with her. In our hotel. On our dates.

I asked about the reservation. He said he rebooked the room in his name. That I could return the tickets and get the money back. That he was sorry, but he couldn’t pretend anymore.

I got up from the table. Went to the bedroom. There on the bed lay the clothes. His and mine. For two weeks of vacation. The suitcases stood nearby, open.

I sat on the bed. He followed me in. Said he understands that I’m hurt. But he has the right to be happy. That twenty-three years is a long time, that he’s tired. That he wants to try a different life.

I asked when he’s leaving. He answered on Saturday. In six days. I nodded. He stood there for a while, then left the room.

I sat on the bed until morning. Looking at the clothes. At his shirts I ironed yesterday. At my new dress. At the suitcases.

In the morning, he went to work. I packed his things in one suitcase. Put mine back in the closet. Called the hotel. Found out the reservation was indeed changed. Room in his name and that other woman’s. On our dates.

Called the train station. Returned my ticket. Apparently, he bought his own separately.

On Saturday, he left. Took the suitcase, walked out of the house. Said he’d be back in two weeks. That we’d talk about the divorce calmly afterward.

For two weeks, I stayed home alone. The kids are grown, live separately. I was alone in the apartment. Every day I looked at the calendar. Counted the days. Imagined him walking along the promenade with her. Dining in that restaurant. Sitting on that balcony with a view of the sea.

He came back two weeks later. Tanned, relaxed. Said he’s filing for divorce. That he’s moving in with that woman. The apartment will be mine. Packed his things and left. Now I sit alone. Looking at the calendar. August is over. For twenty years, I went to the sea every August. And this year, I stayed home alone while my husband was in our hotel with someone else.

Tell me, was there anything I could have noticed beforehand? Or was I just ignoring the obvious? And how do you continue to live when a tradition that held you together for twenty years is shattered by a single phrase?

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For twenty years, my husband and I went to the sea together every August — it was our tradition, our sacred time.
This year, I booked the same hotel and packed the suitcases.
A week before the trip, my husband sat across from me in the kitchen and quietly said, “I’m going to the sea. But not with you.”
My heart stopped.
I couldn’t say a word, and he kept talking, saying things I couldn’t believe I was hearing…
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