Solstice
There’s something ironic about the Solstice being the brightest, longest day of the year. All that sunlight and somehow, my most important truths came in the quiet. Not in the light. Not in celebration. Not even in ritual. Just in the soft, calm knowing that came after decades of waiting.
I used to wait on the porch every other weekend, little backpack packed. Notebooks and a toothbrush. Maybe a toy I’d bring with me to his place. Except he never came. Or well to be honest he usually didn’t come. He came sometimes. It was as if he’d appear once in a blue moon. He seemed to come when he thought my hope would shrivel and I would stop waiting if he didn’t.
That was the pattern.
Calls full of promises.
Nothing to follow through.
Excuses. Delays. Silence.
Years of silence. With minimal visits a year even if he scheduled them all.
Still Child Me Waited & Waited
But I still waited, every other weekend like clockwork. It became part of my rhythm, part of the structure that shaped me. I didn’t realize until recently that I’d started seeing everyone through that same lens. I treated every new connection like it was just another promise waiting to be broken. Another porch. Another weekend. Another packed bag that never got carried to the car.
But Lately
It’s only lately, maybe in this strange stillness, that I’ve realized not everyone is him. Not every missed message is abandonment. Not every “I’m here for you” is a lie.
Some people stay. Some people show up. Some people are not him.
And I’ve stood by my no contact boundary. For 2 years now mostly. That was not easy. There’s guilt in that kind of distance. But there’s also peace. And maybe peace is the true Solstice gift. It’s the kind that comes from holding your own sunlight instead of chasing scraps of someone else’s.
Two years ago, he commented on something I’d posted about my mom. He acted like he was still a presence. It seemed like he had any place in my life or my grief. This man doesn’t even know my birthday. My address. Where I live. Who I am. He knows a version of me that’s long dead. The child on the porch. Not the person I am now.
Should Have Just Stayed No Contact
So I messaged him.
The message was long, so long you had to click to expand it in iMessages. I told him the truth. I laid it out. The damage. The broken trust. The years of absence. How his words mean nothing anymore because he never once followed through. I wasn’t cruel, just honest. Direct. Clear.
He replied with a single period.
Just a dot.
Like all that truth didn’t even deserve words.
A year later, I tried again. Softer this time. Not because I thought it would change anything, but because I needed to release it from me. I needed to say that this wasn’t my job to fix. That I was the child. That I had done enough.
Another long message. Another scroll.
He replied with a thumbs up.
That was it.
And somehow, those two hollow responses made everything quieter. Like, finally quiet. Not the kind of quiet you sit in while waiting . The kind that comes when you stop waiting. When you stop leaving the porch light on. When you let the bag go unpacked. When you choose to stop hoping for something you know won’t ever come.
That was my Solstice.
Not a ritual. Not a hike. Not a spell.
Just a quiet knowing:
He is who he is.
And I am no longer the child waiting for him to change.
I may share those messages someday. This is not to expose him. It is to show what emotional closure looks like when it’s one-sided. What it means to hold truth when no one ever mirrors it back. What it means to free yourself from the trap of obligation and choose healing instead.
The sun is highest now.
And I’ve never felt more clear.
