The message ended, a mere fifteen seconds that seemed to rewrite our entire relationship. I played it again. My husband doesn’t want to see you. Not we think, not maybe it’s best. Michael didn’t want me there, and Emily had agreed, without hesitation. “Sorry,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

My fingers went numb, and beneath the shock, something else churned within me, like ice cracking on a frozen lake. I realized I had been paying for the privilege of being tolerated. Emily had assessed the trip, those tickets, that hotel, and determined I was dispensable. The money could stay; I could go.

Determined, I picked up my phone and found the confirmation email, the airline receipts. Three passengers. Cancellation policy: full refund minus a $200 fee if more than fourteen days before departure. With three weeks until April 10th, there was plenty of time.

At 6 AM, I went to my office and opened the airline website. The three tickets stared back at me, and my cursor hovered over the “cancel reservation” button. With newfound resolve, I clicked. Are you sure? Yes, I was sure.

Next, I called the hotel. “I need to cancel a reservation,” I informed the cheerful woman on the phone. “Change of plans.”

After I hung up, the office seemed to expand around me. Emily didn’t know yet, wouldn’t know until they tried to check in. Until they arrived at the airport with luggage and expectations, only to find my credit card authorization no longer existed.

I deleted her voice message. Fifteen seconds of rejection, gone with a simple swipe of my thumb. Then, I blocked her number and Michael’s. Clean breaks heal faster than ragged ones, I reminded myself. In the newfound silence, I sat back and let the peace of my decision wash over me.