THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM. (IT WASN’T.)

I took the elevator from the garage up to the first floor of my building. I don't check the mail consistently like I should, there's probably a huge pile stuffed in there. I empty the mailbox and start flipping through the junk mail and stop at a white envelope. It's addressed to me in a handwriting I know well, with its return address a confusing format that seems like somewhere in Europe. The blood drained from my face. My body didn't expect to recoil like this.

If this is a repeat of what happened a few months ago, let's skip to the part where I throw this away.

I got a text from a number that wasn't saved in my contacts, but I knew right away who it was. Who else do I know has that area code. Before I even got to the end, I felt it. He wasn't trying to hurt me. He was just turning the spotlight towards himself and his supposedly successful healing. I was at work when I saw it on my break. It messed up my mental state for the rest of my shift. I wanted to go home so badly, to not be in public while I mulled over the meaning of a text I didn't ask for. I didn't respond.

That Tuesday afternoon at the mailbox — that white envelope in his handwriting — that was the second time.

He was stationed in Europe by then. A promotion that took him abroad, a life he chose, a life that had nothing to do with me. And yet. There was his handwriting in my mailbox, a military return address I almost didn't recognize, a white envelope that had crossed an ocean to find me on an unremarkable afternoon. I read the letter a few times. I still couldn't tell you what the point of it was. I didn't respond.

"Can I ask you something?" my sister texts me. Her asking me for permission to ask me a question means something's off. I know her. She usually just asks. I suck in a big breath and let her question come. We FaceTimed. She didn't know how to tell me, and she'd been sitting on this for a week. He had emailed her, attaching another letter addressed to me, this time typed. He asked her to read it, and left it up to her judgment. You know her better than I do, he wrote. But you know what else she knows better than to do? Take on the relationship regrets of someone who can't take silence as a complete answer — and all while almost nine months pregnant. She waves off his audacity into the air as she gets up from the sofa and waddles off screen to pee for the tenth time today.

I read the email anyway, because I wanted to know what he said. I kept scoffing. Furrowing my brows. There was a long-winded explanation of what he went through, how he felt, what this all meant to him. Nothing about my perspective. Nothing clear about what he actually wanted. Three attempts, and he still couldn't say the thing. Whatever the thing was. I didn't respond.

If responding with silence came easy to me, the first time he reached out wouldn't have stung as much. It was a test, to see if I'd fawn over him again. My body almost gave in. But even if every impulse was tempting me to retaliate or defend myself, I chose silence. Over and over again. I chose it as many times as I needed to until my own healing occupied my thoughts more than his words. I chose it by preparing wholesome meals to enjoy at a table set for one. I chose it by prepping my workout clothes the night before so that the next day I could relieve stress at the gym. I chose it by baking and embroidering and taking photos and writing. I chose it by pouring love into the people in my life who give as much as they take. And it got easier each time.

In these little acts of self love, I was teaching myself to be certain about myself. To understand as fully as possible who I am and what I deserve — that it becomes the standard for how others treat me.

Three attempts over two years yielded not one clear answer.

So the saying isn't true.

Third time is not the charm.