I took a break from writing this memoir because I thought, “How can I end my story on such a sad note?” Let’s face it, if my life were a movie, Marco and I would have fallen in love and lived happily ever after. In reality, he was fucking two other women and we never saw each other again. Not exactly a fairytale ending.
I spent the last few weeks catastrophizing, and wondering how I was ever going to finish the story about my life the year after my husband died. I was convinced that I manifested my worst nightmares, and ignored my deepest desires. I felt I was vicious and cruel to those who cared about me, and pulled closer those who wanted to use me for their own gain.
I wondered how I became my own worst enemy.
A bit melodramatic, I know.
My story with Matt was never destined to have a happily ever after ending either. We had become “just friends” and had stopped having sex months earlier, but we continued an emotional affair. In my eyes that was worse than the few times we had fucked, although I don’t think his wife would have seen it that way.
As we slowly drifted apart, I still couldn’t tell him goodbye. I wasn’t afraid that he would try to hang on to our relationship, I was scared that he would let me go the same way Marco had. I spent so much time living in fear of being left again, so I left him first.
Toward the end of December 2023, after several days without a message from Matt on Snapchat, I convinced myself that I was justified in deleting him as my friend in the app and thus in my life. Although this wasn’t the first time we had unfriended each other out of jealousy or spite, it was the last time.
I still don’t feel good about what I did, but at the time I wasn’t able to do better. He’s been on my mind recently, and I’m embarrassed to admit I did reach out a couple of times. I wanted to tell him about his starring role in my memoir, but I deleted all my messages before he saw them.
What would be the point in reconnecting, even platonically, with a married man? I’ve spent most of this year writing from a place of honest reflection, so I didn’t see any benefit of jumping back into a relationship built on secrets and lies.
I still care about Matt and Marco. They both helped me move through a very difficult time in my life, but they were never meant to move forward with me. Marco was not against me starting my Instagram account, Jenny the Manhattan MILF, but he wasn’t supportive either.
After I posted my first photos, about a week before our last meeting, I sensed he wasn’t thrilled. When I asked him about his feelings he was evasive, and emphasized that my desire to create an online gallery of my photographic work was more important than what anyone else thought. The problem was that I wasn’t asking “just anyone”, I was asking him.
I started to think more about who I was in my past long-term relationships, and a clear pattern began to emerge. I had repeatedly toned down my personality and my sexuality because I didn’t think a man would love me unless I made myself smaller, attracting less attention.
Had Marco and I gotten together, I’m sure I would have sacrificed parts of myself to be with him, the same way I always had. This time I would have been motivated by my fear of raising my son alone, and grieving Steven’s death. I didn’t think I was strong enough to do either, but I was wrong.
It’s difficult for me to imagine getting through my second year of widowhood without my Jenny The Manhattan MILF Instagram account. I poured every ounce of creativity I had into my photos, videos and eventually my captions. I connected with other like-minded creators, and for the first time rather than shrink who I was, I doubled down and became more of who I was always meant to be.
Eventually, my focus turned to writing, and my platform of choice was Substack. This is when I knew that to move forward with my memoir I had to separate myself from Matt. Telling the story required an honesty we didn’t share, and I would have wanted his approval before I published anything.
Again, I would have shut down parts of myself to please a man, but this time I wouldn’t even get his love in return. It still wasn’t easy to cut him out of my life, and I believe I could have handled it better, but this memoir would not have been written otherwise.
Facing these last two years head on, and without distraction, have been the most painful time in my life. I chose not to dissociate again, or chase my feelings away with men, sex, alcohol, or buying ever more lingerie.
Grief feels more like a mild to moderate chronic condition rather than an acute, yet curable, disease. Mourning Steven’s death is a part of who I am now. Sometimes I will have grief-fueled flare ups, other times I will have no symptoms at all. With this in mind, I’ve had to redefine what happily ever after looks like for me.
In my 20s and 30s I was more susceptible to societal messages about what I should want in order to be happy. Number one on the list for women was, and still is, a man’s love. From Disney movies, to stupid lines like, “You complete me,” we are meant to believe getting a man to love us is really all we need to be happy.
After we get the man we’re supposed to want babies. Women get sidetracked with running a household and/or working outside the home while men are allowed to pour themselves into their careers. When women try to do this we are met with mom shaming and guilt. It’s a fine line to walk, and we usually find ourselves on either side of it, rather than squarely on it.
By midlife many women have all the things that are supposed to make us happy, but many of us are not. We wonder if happily ever after ever really existed. After 20 or 30 years of putting everyone’s needs before our own, we wonder when it’s going to be our turn. It becomes clear that if we want happiness, we better grab it for ourselves. Do we need to quit the job or the marriage in order to live a more authentic life?
I was initially scared that my story would end on a really sad note. How could the ending be happy and uplifting when I’m still not in a relationship? Then it dawned on me that my happy ending was dependent on NOT getting the guy. My happily ever after meant focusing on my desires without seeking permission or approval from anyone else, especially a partner.
Looking back I see so much heartbreak, but also tremendous growth through creativity. I set a few goals, and accomplished them — I built a following, curated a collection of innovative images, and I wrote a book. Framed in that light, I couldn’t have ended this memoir on a happier note if I tried.
Do Happy Endings Really Exist?