🥄 The Scrambled Omelet: Now Serving Motor Oil and Misery

I drove six hours with grief on my chest and compassion in my hands ready to console the man who’d lost his mother. I brought empathy like breakfast: warm, steady, familiar. But when I pulled up, I didn’t find sorrow waiting at the door.

She was in the front yard, face buried in an engine, working like a man rebuilding something broken. And maybe she was ,just not the car.

Instead he was already under repair by someone else’s hands. The “Scrambled Omelet” hadn’t changed; he just switched kitchens. Some men don’t fix their mistakes; they just trade the mess for a new mechanic.

When she saw me, her hands froze, her eyes darted like a thief caught in daylight. I asked for him, calm and clear, but he never came out. Not even a shadow in the doorway. The kind of silence that confesses more than words ever could.

She disappeared inside to fetch him, anxiety dripping from every step, but I already knew. The cowardice was louder than the engine she’d been tinkering with. I stood there staring at his keys on the ground , the same keys I’d once waited up for, worried over, opened doors with. For a second, I thought about taking them. About holding something that still belonged to him, since he couldn’t even hold himself accountable.

But I didn’t. I left them where they were just like he left the truth.

I walked away with something heavier than metal: closure. Because love without honesty is just noise , a car that never starts no matter how many times you turn the key.

I drove six hours to show up for him, but I left finally showing up for myself.

I never made it to the service. I couldn’t. My heart was too cracked, my spirit too bruised to stand beside a man who hid from both grief and guilt. I loved that woman truly. She deserved to be honored with peace, not pain. But instead of sitting in that chapel, I found myself driving home, mourning two losses at once: hers, and the version of him I kept hoping existed. Some heartbreaks don’t break you they free you from pretending.

Let him eat what he’s made. I’m done serving second chances.

💛 Because at the end of the day, you can’t unscramble what’s already broken. So I did the only thing left to do Omelet him go.

Y.O.L.k. You Only Love Knowingly.