I thought I was packing up 32 years of belongings.

Turns out I’m packing up 32 years of written confessions.

Every cupboard I open:

💌 “I’m sorry.”

💌 “I know I’ve treated you terribly.”

💌 “I’ll change.”

💌 “You deserve better.”

Honestly, if apologies were a currency, I’d be retiring on a private island.

At this point I’m convinced I don’t own a house—I own the National Archive of Broken Promises.

I’ve stopped reading them.

Straight into the recycling they go.

Because I’ve already binge-read all 32 seasons, and I know how the story ends.

The best part?

He left 18 months ago and never came back for any of it.

Apparently even he didn’t want the evidence.

On the bright side, I’m doing my bit for the environment.

Reducing clutter.
Recycling paper.
And disposing of emotional waste all at the same time.

♻️📦😂