The Missing

by Kiersten Modglin

Sometimes we know the truth about the people we love; we know the truth in our bones and in the fiber of our being, but we can’t admit it, not even to ourselves. Sometimes the truth lies in the quiet moments, in the first thoughts, the answer that pops into our heads before we have time to tamp down the intuition that we so often do, because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

We’d rather live with the mistakes we’ve made, shut out the things we’ve learned, the way we’ve grown, than take on the challenge of admitting our marriage sucks, or our friend is toxic, or our relationship with our parents isn’t healthy. So, we ignore the voice, ignore the feeling in our gut that grows stronger every day, and we pretend that life is so much longer than it is and that we’ll get more chances for better days. And that was what I’d done with my marriage for so long. If I was back in the real world, it was what I’d continue to do. But here, on the island with nothing to muddle my head, only silence and my thoughts, I’d been forced to reckon with what I’d known for so long. My husband didn’t love me. Not like he should. He tolerated me, sure. Took care of me.