There was a time
I thought of Gaitha Moore
as the girl who got away.
Her glance in the hallway
lingered in my memory
like a note never played.

I once imagined
what might have bloomed
had I spoken—
love ?
friendship?
or something quietly beautiful?

But now,
with years behind me
and a clearer view
of the road I chose,
I see something else.

I see
that not marrying Gaitha
was not just a missed opportunity—
it was a mercy.

Because I wasn’t ready.
Not for her,
not for marriage,
not for the kind of vulnerability
that love demands.

I married too soon,
and the bitter truth
is this:
I abused my first wife.

Not with fists
but with words
She deserved better
better than the man I was.

And Gaitha,
whoever she truly was,
deserved to remain
untouched by that season.

This is not self-loathing.
It’s the sober recognition
of a man who has lived
long enough to face his failures
without flinching.

I do not romanticize the past,
nor do I excuse it.
I name it,
because naming
is the first step toward healing.

Had Gaitha and I married,
we might have tried
to build something
on the fragile foundation
of youthful longing.

We might have mistaken
mutual attraction
for mutual understanding.
And when the storms came—
as they always do—
we might have found ourselves
strangers in the same house.

I’m glad we never married,
not because I didn’t care,
but because I cared too much
to risk building a life
on a glance.

I needed to walk
that long road alone,
to find my voice,
my faith,
my calling.
And maybe she did too.

Some regrets sting
because they feel unfinished.
This one no longer does.
It feels resolved.
Not with bitterness,
but with grace.

Some doors never opened,
and I’m grateful.
Not because I feared love,
but because
I was not yet
worthy of it.

The Ordinary Path
is lit
for those who seek mercy,
memory,
and meaning.

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