Trina Stewart
I met him five years ago on Tinder.
Nothing dramatic. Just easy. Casual. Four months of dinners, too much partying, uncomplicated companionship. I was six months out of my own relationship. I was not looking to build forever. I wanted steady.
Then his ex-wife reappeared.
Four years separated.
There was a wedding. There were “family conversations.” There was the question she asked him about whether they would be intimate.
I chose grace.
I said, do what you need to do to bring your family together.
After the wedding, he ended it. He cried while telling me she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
That was not cruelty.
It was clarity.
Over time, the patterns became undeniable. A handwritten note taped to his fridge listing what he was not allowed to say or do. Friday night appearances. Saturday morning departures. The hovering presence.
It was not reconciliation.
It was control.
We got back together when she met someone else. That should have been my second hard stop.
One night we were working on his deck when the call came in. They were putting the family dog down.
He was not allowed to go.
Not invited. Not included. Not permitted.
He cried. Quietly. Powerless.
And I saw it for what it was. Not just her behaviour.
His compliance.
We had good times. I let him fully into my world.
And I wanted him there.
I put my trailer in his name. He did not pay a dime toward it. I still asked him to sign the papers protecting me while I lived in his home.
Terrified that if anything happened to him, his family would throw me out. I was trying to secure my footing in a situation that never felt secure.
That is what fear does.
It makes you overextend. It makes you hand over leverage in exchange for the illusion of safety.
In their eyes, I was the homewrecker. I did not stand a chance. No protection from him. Only venom from them.
Public optics mattered to them and him. I did not.
An event I invited him to. His behaviour. My reputation absorbing the fallout.
Forgiving him. Standing by him.
Something no one else ever did.
He was the asshole coaster all of his life.
Then my dad was dying.
The slow goodbye that empties you long before the final day.
And that is when she sent the divorce papers.
Timing like that is not accidental. It is intentional. It is aggressive.
I called her one late night after too much whiskey. No regrets. I said what I said.
He said nothing.
Abuse. Control. Emotional manipulation.
His daughter crying. Feeling unseen.
I begged him to defend her. To stand up like a father.
Be valiant. Be brave. Speak for your children.
He said, “They’ll leave that house and never go back. They’ll do it together.”
For a long time, I framed her as the snake. The strategist. The one who knew exactly when to strike.
Yes, she was controlling. Yes, she was abusive.
But here is the truth that finally gave me peace.
He is a grown man.
He has a mind of his own.
He is aware that she arrived on the scene at a time when his health is questionable.
Never when he was healthy.
And he chose.
He chose to re-engage.
He chose to comply.
He chose to return.
And ultimately, he chose her.
Apparently he now has a newfound love of Waterloo. The same Waterloo he “couldn’t” drive to when it meant visiting his parents or his children.
Now many nights are spent there. His own home sits vacant.
Effort follows desire.
Priority follows attachment.
It was never about distance.
It was about choice.
The Year of the Snake was not about being outplayed.
It was about accepting that you cannot outlove someone’s attachment to chaos.
You cannot rescue someone who is comfortable inside control structures.
You cannot build a future with someone who keeps walking back into the same room.
She may have applied pressure.
But he decided.
And that distinction changes everything.
Because it frees me.
No more triangle. No more decoding behaviour. No more waiting to see who shows up on Friday.
He chose his path.
I chose mine.
I live in peace now.
Real peace.
The kind that comes when you stop fighting for someone who is not fighting for you.
Goodbye, Year of the Snake.
No bitterness.
Just clarity.
And clarity is power.
