“I don’t think we’re meant to grow old together.” Those were the words my husband, Greg, spoke one Thursday evening in October while I stirred his favorite chili. After twenty-two years of marriage, a daughter in college, and countless memories together, I honestly thought he was joking. Then he placed a manila envelope on the kitchen table. Inside were divorce papers he had already signed. He told me we had grown apart, but when I asked what I had done wrong, he simply said nothing. I asked if there was another woman, and he swore there wasn’t.

I wanted to believe him, but nothing made sense. We still held hands in grocery stores, kissed each other every morning, and planned vacations like any ordinary couple. Yet Greg packed his things and walked out that night, leaving me standing in the kitchen with chili splashed across my shoes. For weeks, I barely slept. Our house felt painfully empty, and even the smallest things reminded me of him. Eventually, my daughter convinced me that I needed a change of scenery. She suggested a cruise, hoping the ocean and a few days away might help me begin putting my broken life back together.