I have been married to Harold Collins for five years, and I never once imagined he would try to take my life.
But on the morning of our fifth anniversary, I stood before the vanity in our Charleston, South Carolina home, adjusting my pearl earrings and still believing I was the luckiest woman alive.
I had spent weeks preparing little surprises for him.
Handwritten notes tucked into the pockets of his jackets.
His favorite shrimp and grits, which I had practiced making every single night for a month.
A leather album filled with photographs from our first date to our wedding day.
I wanted this anniversary to be absolutely perfect.
But that morning, Harold surprised me with a gesture I did not expect.
“I also prepared something,” he said, standing in the bedroom doorway with a tired smile.
“Let’s go to the sea. I rented a private boat. Just you and me.”
My eyes instantly filled with tears.
“You did this,” I whispered, rushing over to hug him tightly.
“Lately you’ve been so distant. I thought you had forgotten.”
He hugged me back, but his arms felt stiff, like he was holding a stranger.
I did not notice.
I only saw the man I still loved with all my heart.
For me, that trip meant a new beginning.
For Harold, it was a farewell.
When we arrived at the private dock near Charleston Harbor, the sea breeze gently brushed my hair across my face.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the salty air, letting the warmth of the late afternoon sun settle on my skin.
“It’s so beautiful,” I exclaimed, truly moved by the golden horizon stretching over the Atlantic.
Harold offered me his hand and helped me step aboard a polished white boat named The Southern Star.
The boat rocked gently against the dock while a lone seagull cried somewhere in the distance.
I smiled and waved at the empty water, feeling like a young bride again.
