I Divorced The Woman Who Saved My Life-And I’ve Never Forgiven Ve Never Forgiven Myself – Ty

I divorced the woman who saved my life, and I’ve never stopped paying for it. I need you to stay with me through every minute of this story. Because what I am about to tell you does not reveal itself all at once. It builds. And when the full truth finally arrives, and it will arrive, I promise you, it is going to change the way you see everything that came before it.

I know that because it changed everything for me. And I was the one living it. My name is Daniel. I was married twice. The first marriage ended because I found out my wife had been with another man. The second marriage ended because my wife could not stop being with other men. And somewhere between those two endings is a truth so painful that I have spent 11 years trying to figure out how to say it out loud.

What I did not know, what I could not have imagined when I filed for divorce from my first wife, was that she had done what she did to keep me alive. I did not find that out until it was too late. By then, Grace was already someone else’s wife. That is where this story ends. But you need to understand where it begins, because the beginning is the only way the ending makes any sense.

Grace and I met when we were both 24 years old. She was working at a small pharmacy near the university where I was finishing my degree, and I walked in one afternoon with a headache and walked out completely distracted by the woman behind the counter. She had this way of looking at you, steady, calm, like she had already decided she wasn’t going to panic about anything.

I thought it was confidence. I would later understand it was something deeper. It was the kind of peace that belongs to a person who has already decided what they stand for, and what they are willing to sacrifice for the people they love. I didn’t know yet what that would mean for me. But I was about to find out.

We dated for 2 years before I proposed. They were the best 2 years of my life, though I didn’t fully appreciate that at the time. Grace remembered everything. The way I liked my coffee, the name of the colleague making my life difficult at work, the anniversary of my mother’s passing. She never performed remembering.

She just remembered. And she acted on it quietly, without asking for recognition. Looking back now, I understand that this was not just kindness. It was a pattern. Grace was the kind of woman who gave without announcing it, who sacrificed without asking you to notice. That pattern would define everything that happened between us, including the things she did that I didn’t find out about until years after I had already punished her for it.

We got married in a simple ceremony. Neither of us came from wealthy families. We moved into a small apartment and built our life day by day. Grace was still at the pharmacy. I had a job in logistics. We weren’t rich, but we were stable, and we were happy. On weekends, we cooked together in that small kitchen.

Grace had a way of making even the most basic meals feel like an occasion. We had friends over on Saturday evenings. We took long walks on Sunday mornings. We talked about the future with the easy confidence of two people who believed, without really examining it, that they were going to be fine. That life, that ordinary, warm, uncomplicated life is the thing I grieve most.

Not the big moments. The small ones. Grace humming while she washed the dishes. The way she tucked herself under my arm when we watched television. The sound of her laughing at something I said that wasn’t even that funny. I didn’t know I was supposed to be memorizing those things. I didn’t know they were going to run out.

Grace sacrificed things I never knew she was sacrificing. She turned down a promotion because the hours would have meant she was home less. She quietly sent money to her younger sister every month without telling me. She handled problems before they could reach me. She was a shield and I didn’t even know I was standing behind one.

I didn’t know either just how far she was willing to go when the situation became something no ordinary shield could handle. That moment was coming and neither of us was ready for it. Then I got sick. It started slowly. A tiredness I couldn’t explain. Swelling in my legs that came and went. Headaches that arrived without warning and stayed for days.

I ignored it for months because I was 29 years old and I believed, the way young men do, that my body was simply not the kind that failed. I was wrong. The diagnosis came on a Thursday afternoon in November. I remember the doctor’s face more clearly than I remember his words. Kidney disease. Both kidneys compromised.

One significantly more than the other. The treatment he recommended was going to cost money we did not have. He gave us a figure. $300,000. I looked at Grace when he said it. She didn’t flinch. She just nodded slowly and asked what the next steps were. I remember thinking how calm she was. I did not yet understand what that calm was costing her or what it was about to cost her in ways that neither of us could have foreseen.

That night I fell apart. I sat on the edge of our bed and I couldn’t speak. Grace sat beside me, held my hand, and said, “We are going to handle this.” She said it the way she said everything, quietly, firmly, like it was already decided. I wanted to believe her. $300,000 was not a number our lives had any room for.

Our insurance covered some of it. Not nearly enough. I had no savings worth speaking of. I did not know where the rest would come from. I would not find out the full answer to that question for a very long time. And when I did, it would be too late to do anything with it. And so Grace started running. From one door to the next, from one possibility to the next.

Medical grants. Hospital payment plans. Charities. Distant relatives. She did all of this while working her full shift at the pharmacy, while coming home each evening to sit with me, while pretending that everything was under control. She never let me see how hard she was working. She never came home and collapsed and said she was exhausted and afraid.

She never once allowed me to see the full weight of what she was carrying. She just kept going. And I let her. I was sick and I was scared and I let her carry it all. I told myself that was what she wanted. I told myself she was strong. I used her strength as permission not to look too closely at what it was costing her.

I was in and out of the hospital during those months. There were weeks when I was too weak to sit up on my own. Grace was there every time. She learned the name of every nurse on my ward. She learned to read my charts. She sat with the billing department and negotiated payment timelines I didn’t even know she was negotiating.

She was fighting on every front simultaneously, fighting for my health, fighting for our finances, fighting to keep me from seeing how frightened she was. And at home, when was well enough to be there, she cooked my meals and she sat beside me and she told me about her day and she laughed at my jokes and she held my hand at night.

She was performing normalcy for my benefit while quietly doing things I would not discover for years. There is a certain kind of love in that, a fierce, self-erasing kind of love that I did not have the vocabulary to recognize at the time. Before we go any further, please encourage this channel by subscribing.

It will cost you nothing and it means everything to us. Now, let me continue because what comes next is where everything begins to shift. The money started coming in. Grace told me she had secured assistance from a foundation and arranged payment plans with the hospital. I believed her without question. Why would I doubt her? She had never lied to me.

I was too sick and too relieved to ask harder questions. I focused on getting well. And slowly, painfully, I did. Seven months of treatment. Seven months of medication that made me feel worse before it made me feel better. But I recovered. The doctors were pleased. Grace stood in that hospital room when they delivered the good news and she smiled.

And even then, even in that moment of genuine relief, something about her smile looked different. Quieter. More careful. Like she was holding something in even as she let something else out. I noticed it and set it aside. I would think about that smile many times in the years that followed. We came home and tried to return to normal. But normal felt different now.

Grace felt different. Not cold. She was never cold with me, but careful. Like there was a small, permanent distance between us that hadn’t existed before. She still cooked. She still laughed. She still tucked herself under my arm in the evenings. But something had shifted in her, something I couldn’t name or locate.

I told myself it was the stress of 7 months. I told myself she needed time to decompress, to let her body remember what it felt like not to be in crisis. I told myself a lot of things because the alternative, that the distance meant something specific and serious, was not something I was ready to examine. 3 months after my discharge, I was going through old paperwork, hospital receipts, insurance documents, things I had been too sick to deal with during treatment, when I found a discrepancy.

A payment that didn’t match any source Grace had described to me. A single large cash payment deposited directly to the hospital’s account. I asked her about it that evening, casually, trying to sound curious rather than suspicious. She hesitated. It was less than a second. But Grace never hesitated. She thought before she spoke, but she didn’t hesitate.

“It was from the foundation,” she said. “Some donors prefer to give directly.” I nodded. I let it go. But something stayed with me, a small, quiet alarm that I couldn’t silence no matter how many times I told it to stop. Over the following weeks, I started paying attention in ways I hadn’t before. Grace sometimes came home from shifts she described as routine looking more drained than routine ship produce.

She occasionally took phone calls in another room and came back without mentioning who had called. She sometimes paused in the middle of a sentence as if she had started to say something and thought better of it. Small things. Things that meant nothing individually. But, they accumulated. They stacked up one on top of the other until the shape they formed became impossible to ignore.

And then, one evening, a man named Victor called our home number. And nothing after that was ever the same. I answered the phone. He didn’t know it was me. He said, “Grace, I just wanted to check in. Make sure things are going well for you both.” His voice was comfortable with her name. Too comfortable. The kind of comfortable that only comes from knowing someone beyond the surface.

I said nothing for a moment. Then I said, “This is her husband.” A pause stretched between us, long and heavy. Then he said, “I see. I’m sorry to bother you. Please tell her Victor called.” He hung up. I stood in the kitchen holding the phone, and something cold and quiet settled into my chest. I didn’t confront Grace that night.

I waited. Part of me already knew that confrontation would open something I didn’t yet know how to close. It took two more weeks. Two weeks of telling myself I was wrong. Two weeks of almost convincing myself that Victor was simply a contact from a charitable organization. And then, one morning, while Grace was at work, I found a letter.

I was not looking for it. I was searching for car insurance documents in the drawer of her bedside table. The letter was there, folded, not sealed, not meaningfully hidden. As if part of her had simply run out of the energy to conceal it any further. It was from Victor. It was not long. It was not explicit. But, it was clear.

He wrote about what had passed between them. He wrote that he understood she had done what she did out of love for her husband. He wrote that he would not contact her again if that was what she preferred. He hoped her husband had recovered fully and that she would find some peace. I read it three times. Then I folded it carefully and put it back exactly where I had found it.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall for a long time. And the question I should have asked, why, never made it to the surface. What rose instead was something louder and simpler and devastating. My wife had been with another man. When Grace came home that evening and saw the letter sitting on the table between us, she stopped in the doorway.

She looked at it. She looked at me. Then she walked in slowly and sat down across from me and she waited. I did not give her long to wait. I began to speak and what came out was not a question. It was an accusation. I told her she had humiliated me. I told her she had betrayed me. I told her she had destroyed the one thing in my life that I believed was solid.

I told her I didn’t know who she was. I told her our marriage was over. And then Grace did something I had never seen her do before. She begged. Not the quiet, composed Grace I had always known. This was something raw than that. She stood up from the chair and she came toward me and she took my hands in hers and she said, “Daniel, please.

Please listen to me before you say anything else.” Her voice was shaking. “Do you remember the night we got engaged? You took me to that little restaurant by the river and you were so nervous you knocked over your water glass and you laughed and said that was the most embarrassing moment of your life. Do you remember that?” I pulled my hands away.

She kept going. “Do you remember when we painted that apartment together? The one on Clement Street? And we ran out of paint halfway through and the wall was two different shades of white for six months and we laughed about it every single time we walked past.” I told her that had nothing to do with what she had done.

She said, “It has everything to do with it. That is our life, Daniel. That is what I was fighting for.” She was crying now, which she had never done in front of me. Not like this. Not without restraint. She told me she had tried every other option. She told me she had said no twice before she said yes. She told me she had sat alone in our apartment one night and looked at my medical bills and looked at our bank account and understood that without more money my treatment would be scaled back in ways that could cost me my life.

She said she had made a choice that no woman should have to make and she had made it because the alternative was losing me. She said, “I would make the same choice again. I would do it again tomorrow if it meant you were still here.” She reminded me of everything we had built. She reminded me of the years.

Nine years from the first date to that evening. Nine years of mornings and meals and ordinary beautiful moments that belonged only to us. She reminded me of the promises we had made to each other and the life we had said we were going to build. She said, “Daniel, I have given you everything I have. I have given you things I cannot get back.

Please do not throw that away without hearing me. Please.” She stood in front of me with tears running down her face and she begged me to stay. She begged me the way a person begs when they know they are losing something that cannot be replaced. She begged me with her whole self. And I refused. I told her that nothing she said changed what she had done.

I told her that a betrayal with good intentions was still a betrayal. I told her I needed her to leave. She stood there for a long moment after I said it, long enough that I thought she was going to argue, long enough that part of me, buried under the anger, hoped she would. But then something in her face went very still, and she nodded once, slowly, and she walked to the bedroom and began to pack a bag.

I sat in the living room and listened to the sound of her moving through our home, opening drawers, folding things, closing doors quietly. She did not slam anything. She did not shout. She packed as carefully and as quietly as she had lived, and when she came back through the living room with her bag, she stopped beside me and said, “I love you, Daniel.

I will always love you. I hope one day you understand.” And then she walked out. And I let her go. I will spend the rest of my life wishing I hadn’t. I filed for divorce 3 weeks later. The paperwork was straightforward. Grace signed everything without dispute, without demands, without attempting to take anything beyond what was hers.

She moved out of the city entirely. I heard later she had gone to stay with her sister. I told people we had grown apart. I kept the real story locked away inside me, and I carried it like a wound I refused to let anyone see. Within a year I had met Sandra. She was introduced through a mutual friend at a gathering I almost didn’t attend.

She was striking, loud in a way that filled the room, charming in a way that made you feel like the most interesting person she had spoken to all evening. After years of Grace’s quiet, steady love, Sandra’s energy felt like sunlight after a long winter. I told myself I was ready. I told myself I had healed. I was lying to myself on both counts, but I was very convincing.

We got married 18 months after we met. I threw myself into the relationship with the desperation of a man who needed to believe he had made the right choice. Our wedding was bigger than the one I’d had with Grace, more guests, more noise, more performance. My family attended. Several of them asked about Grace with the careful gentleness of people who suspected they were near a wound.

I smiled and said we had simply grown apart. No one pushed further. And I stood at that altar and made promises I believed I could keep to a woman I was still in the process of learning. The first year was good enough that I almost believed it. Sandra was fun. She was unpredictable in ways that kept things interesting.

She had a wide circle of friends and a full social life, and for a while I was happy enough to be pulled along in its current. But by the second year, small things began to unsettle me. Sandra came home late without clear explanations. She was evasive about her schedule in ways that felt calculated rather than casual.

She received messages at odd hours that she angled her phone away to read. I noticed all of it. I told myself I was being paranoid, that I was projecting the ghost of Grace’s secret onto a marriage that didn’t deserve the suspicion. I pushed the doubts down and tried to be present. The first time I found proof, I found it by accident.

A receipt for a hotel I had never been to, tucked into the pocket of a jacket Sandra had left on the hall chair. I confronted her that evening. She cried. She said it had been a mistake, a moment of weakness, someone she barely knew, it would never happen again. She was so convincing, so visibly distressed, that I believed her.

Or rather, I needed to believe her, which is not the same thing but can feel identical from the inside. I stayed. I told myself that staying was the mature choice. What I did not tell myself, what I was not yet ready to admit, was that staying was also the coward’s choice. I was afraid of being alone again. I was afraid of what it would mean to have two failed marriages before I turned 40.

The second time I found proof, she was less sorry about it. There were fewer tears. The apology came more quickly and landed more lightly, as if the mechanics of it were familiar to her now and she was simply moving through the motions. I should have left then. I didn’t. I went through another cycle of promises and resumed normal seeing deliberate blindness, and I told myself that people could change and marriages required work and I was not going to be someone who gave up.

Then came the night that ended it beyond any possibility of continuation. I came home early from a work trip. The flight had been canceled and rescheduled and then canceled again, and by 9:00 in the evening I had simply given up and taken a cab back from the airport. The house was not empty. I knew that before I reached the front door, there were lights on that should not have been on, sounds that did not belong to a woman spending an evening alone.

I put my key in the lock and I opened the door and I walked into my own home and I found my wife with a man I had never seen before in my life in a situation that left absolutely no room for interpretation or excuse. They both saw me at the same moment. Nobody moved for what felt like a very long time. Sandra said my name.

Just my name. As if she were greeting me after a normal day. The man began searching for his things with the focused urgency of someone whose only priority is leaving as quickly as possible. I stood in my own doorway and I watched him go. I did not shout. I did not cry. Something in me had gone completely quiet, not the quiet of peace, but the quiet of something that has finally broken all the way through and has nothing left to say.

I looked at Sandra after he was gone. She started to speak. I held up one hand and she stopped. I picked up my keys and I walked back out of my own house and I got into my car and I sat in the driveway for a long time in the dark. All I could think about, and I am not proud of this, but it is the truth, was Grace.

All I could think about was Grace begging me in our living room, reminding me of 9 years, crying in a way I had never seen her cry. All I could think about was the woman who had sold a piece of herself to keep me alive, standing in front of me with her whole heart in her hands, and me telling her to leave. I had left that.

I had walked away from that and arrived here. I had traded Grace for Sandra. I had traded sacrifice for betrayal, loyalty for performance, love for its counterfeit. And I had done it with my eyes open, calling it justice. Sandra and I did not speak that night. I came back inside eventually because I had nowhere else to go and I slept on the couch and in the morning I called a lawyer.

The divorce proceedings were not as clean as my first one had been. Sandra had opinions about the settlement. There were arguments. There was a period of several months in which our interactions were managed entirely through legal representatives. It was expensive and exhausting and every day of it felt like a punishment I had earned.

It was during the second year of my marriage to Sandra, before the worst of it, but after enough that I already knew something was wrong, that I ran into Grace’s younger sister, Miriam, in a shopping center. An ordinary Tuesday afternoon. The kind of encounter that has no business changing your life. Miriam looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

Not hatred, not warmth, something more complicated than either. We said hello. I asked if she had time for coffee. She hesitated. Then she said yes. We sat in a small cafe and talked around the surface of things for a few minutes. Then Miriam set down her cup, looked directly at me, and said, “Daniel, there is something you should know about Grace.

Something she never told you because she was protecting you.” The way she said it, carefully, as if she had been deciding for a long time whether to say it at all, told me that what was coming was not small. I put down my own cup. I waited. The story Miriam told me lasted about 30 minutes. I did not speak for most of it.

Victor was not simply a man who had approached my wife out of desire. He was a man of significant means who had been connected to Grace through a mutual acquaintance at the hospital, someone who knew we were desperately short of money, and who knew Victor had a history of making these kinds of arrangements with women in desperate situations.

Grace had not sought him out. He had come to her. He had learned the specifics of my condition, and he had presented a direct proposition. He would cover a substantial portion of my medical costs, enough to guarantee the level of care my doctors were recommending rather than the reduced version our finances could sustain, in exchange for one night.

Grace had said no. She had said no the first time he asked, and no the second time. She had kept looking, kept applying, kept calling every number she had. But the bills had kept mounting, and the gap between what we had and what we needed had kept widening and one night she had sat alone in our apartment and done the arithmetic and understood that time was running out.

She had gone to Victor. She had held up her end. She had come home. She had never spoken of it to anyone, not to her sister, not to a friend, not to a counselor. She had carried it entirely alone. The money came in. My treatment continued at full capacity. I got better. And then I found the letter and I screamed at her and I filed for divorce and I threw away the woman who had paid that price without hesitation because she could not imagine a world in which she let me die.

Miriam’s voice was steady when she told me this. She was not telling it to wound me, though it wounded me more than anything had in years. She was telling it because she believed I deserved to know and because she had watched her sister carry this alone for too long. “She never blamed you,” Miriam said. “Not once.

Not even after the divorce. She said you didn’t know the full story and that she should have told you. She blamed herself for the secret.” She paused. Then she said she loved you more than she loved herself. She still does in the way that love like that never fully goes away. But she is trying to build a life now, Daniel.

Please don’t go back and make things harder for her.” I drove home from that cafe a different person than the one who had walked in. I don’t know how else to describe it. Something had been rearranged inside me, something fundamental and permanent. I had spent years nursing a grievance that was not what I had believed it to be.

I had divorced a woman for an act of love that I had read as an act of betrayal. I had punished her for the very thing that had kept me alive. And she had accepted the punishment without complaint because she loved me enough to believe I had the right to be angry even when my anger was founded on a story that was missing its most important chapter.

I found Grace’s number through a mutual acquaintance who made me promise twice that I was not going to make things worse for her. I called on a quiet evening when the house was empty and there was nothing to distract me from the weight of what I was about to do. The phone rang several times. I was beginning to think she wouldn’t answer when she did.

She said hello in the voice I remembered, calm, measured, careful. I said her name. There was a pause. Then she said, “Daniel.” Just my name. Two syllables. The way you say the name of something that used to mean everything and now just means history. I told her I knew. I told her Miriam had told me what she had done, what she had actually done, and why.

I told her I had been wrong, completely, inexcusably, devastatingly wrong. I told her I had screamed at her for an act of love and thrown her out of her own home and filed papers to dissolve nine years of a life we had built together, and I had done all of it without once asking the question that would have changed everything.

I told her I was sorry. I said it as plainly and as fully as I knew how to say it because the moment did not deserve to be softened or qualified. Grace was quiet for a long time after I finished. When she spoke, her voice was steady. “Thank you for saying that, Daniel. It means something to me, more than you probably know.

” She paused. “I need you to know that I don’t hate you. I never did. I understood why you reacted the way you did. You were in pain and you felt betrayed and you didn’t have the full picture. I should have given you the full picture. I made a decision without you and then I kept a secret from the person I was supposed to be closest to in the world.

That was wrong of me. I have spent a long time sitting with that. I asked her if there was any possibility, any possibility at all, of starting again. The silence that followed was the longest of my life. Then she said, quietly and without cruelty, “Daniel, I’m married. I have a good life. I have someone who looks at me and sees me, all of me, and doesn’t flinch.

I can’t go back. Not because I don’t still care about you, but because going back is not something either of us could do cleanly. Too much has passed. And I have worked too hard to rebuild myself to risk undoing it.” She paused once more. “Take care of yourself. That is genuinely what I have always wanted for you.

” And then she said goodbye and the line went quiet and she was gone. I sat with the phone in my hand for a long time after that call. The house around me was quiet in the way that houses are quiet when they have never been filled with the right kind of life. I thought about Grace in her apartment after I had told her to leave, packing her things with that terrible quietness, stopping beside me on her way out to say she loved me.

I thought about her sitting alone in our apartment on the night she had made the decision about Victor, the arithmetic she had done, the weight she had carried, the price she had paid without telling a soul. I thought about all the ways I had failed to see her even when she was right in front of me. I divorced Sandra shortly after.

The details no longer felt worth dwelling on. She had been seeing the man I caught her with for almost a year, it turned out. There were others before him. I signed the papers and moved into a smaller place and started the slow work of figuring out who I was without the story I had been telling myself. That was 8 years ago.

I have not remarried. I see a counselor who has helped me understand, slowly and imperfectly, why I made the choices I made and what they cost the people around me. I have worked on becoming someone more honest with others and with myself. It is ongoing work. I don’t think it ever fully finishes. I know that Grace is well.

Mutual friends have mentioned her over the years, enough for me to know she has two children, that her husband is a good man, that she has built the life she always deserved. Every time I hear this, I feel two things simultaneously, genuine relief and a grief that has no clean resolution. Relief because she deserved happiness and she found it in spite of what I put her through.

Grief because I was supposed to be the one standing beside her and I removed myself from that position through my own blindness and my own refusal to listen. There are nights when I lie awake and replay that hospital period, the evenings Grace sat beside my bed and held my hand and told me everything was going to be fine, her voice steady even when nothing was steady, her face calm even when the cost of that calm was everything she had.

I think about her leaving our home with a single bag, stopping to tell me she loved me on her way out. I think about what it takes to love someone that completely, to love them past your own dignity, past your own pain, past the limit of what most people would ever be willing to give and to receive nothing in return but accusation and a set of divorce papers.

I was handed a love that most people spend their whole lives looking for and never find. It was placed in my hands freely, without conditions, by a woman who proved the depth of it in the most costly way imaginable. And I let it go because I could not see past the surface of what she had done to the love that had driven it.

That is my truth. That is the weight I carry into every room I walk into, every morning I wake up to, every quiet evening when there is nothing left but the company of what I chose. I don’t tell this story looking for sympathy. I tell it because there is something real inside it, something about how love does not always announce itself in ways that are easy to receive.

Something about how the people who love us most are sometimes the ones we punish most severely because we trust them enough to be careless with them. Something about how the questions we refuse to ask have a way of becoming the regrets we can never put down. If you are in a relationship right now, if there is someone in your life who has been giving quietly and sacrificing without announcement, I want you to look at them today.

Really look. Ask the question you have been too comfortable to ask. Have the conversation you have been putting off because things seemed fine enough. Don’t wait until a letter on a table makes the question unavoidable. Don’t wait until the person you love has already packed their bag and stopped at the door to say goodbye.

Ask now. While there is still time. Grace is living her life. She has moved forward the way people who are stronger than their circumstances eventually do. She loved me when love was hard and expensive and cost her something real. She let me go when letting me go was the only kind of self-preservation she had left.

She deserved better than what I gave her. I know that now in a way I will never un-know. I am the man who divorced the woman who saved his life. I will spend the rest of mine knowing it. If this story has stayed with you, if it brought someone to mind, raised a question you have been avoiding, made you feel something you needed to feel, please do do with that.

Don’t let it pass. And before you go, I want to ask you for something small. Leave a comment below and tell me what part of this story hit you hardest. Was it Grace’s sacrifice? The begging scene? The moment with Sandra? Whatever it was, say it. Your words matter here and they remind us why we keep telling these stories.

Please subscribe to this channel if you haven’t already and share this with someone who needs to hear it. Thank you for staying until the very end. Until next time.