The vacation my husband planned with his family did not include me.

For twelve years—since the day we married—my husband, Tom, has taken his family on an annual island vacation.

Twelve trips, without fail, he spends with them, but never with me. I’m always the one left behind while they chase the sun and create cherished memories I will never be a part of.

“Why don’t you cancel that trip and we’ll all go together? The kids would love it,” I suggested, mindlessly stirring the salad in front of me, thoughts swirling around all the moments I’d already lost.

“Why would I do that?” he shot back, a frown deepening his face. “The children are too young; it would be confusing. We can talk about it when they’re older, but now is not the time.”

“What about me?” I asked, my voice weak but laced with a barely concealed pain.

“Have you ever thought about how I feel? And are you sure your mother doesn’t find it strange that I’m always away?”

His answer never came. For a moment, it truly felt as if the entire world had paused its breathing.