My ex-MIL “forgot” my ex was coming. When he showed up, I didn’t yell. I spent the trip “bonding” with his CEO, who was also at the resort. By Monday, he was single and unemployed
I’d barely hit the sofa after a long Friday when a weird email blinked in my inbox — a free two-day vacation with a mystery companion. No credit card, no sketchy links. Just a reservation, flight, and hotel. Something didn’t feel right, yet the offer seemed too real to ignore.
My sister Deborah, trying on outfits in the next room, laughed when I showed her. She scanned the email and, to my shock, confirmed it looked legit: real flights, hotel booking and travel insurance all lined up. Still, doubts gnawed at me. No one really gives free vacations.
Despite my hesitation, her enthusiasm won me over. Next day, I stood at the airport, suitcase clutched like a lifeline. Was I about to take the most spontaneous trip of my life — or make the biggest mistake? I walked toward the terminal, heart pounding with mixed fear and excitement.
Boarding the plane, I marveled at business class — something I’d never experienced before. But that luxury vanished the moment I reached for my seat and saw him. Luther. My ex-husband. The man I moved halfway across the world to forget.
He looked just as stunned. “You too?” he said when he saw my ticket. I wanted nothing more than to bolt. But with the plane about to take off and a flight attendant insisting I stay, I had no choice but to sit beside him.
Luther tried to be calm, even charming — that old familiar smile, the easy reassurance. For a fleeting moment, a buried part of me softened. But I snapped back: no second chances. I stared out the window, determined not to let him ruin these two days.
We arrived at the stunning oceanfront hotel. The marble floors and sea breeze were almost enough to distract me. Then Luther walked beside me, reminiscing about our wedding décor as if nothing had changed. My anger flared. Old wounds reopened.
As soon as we hit the hotel room, I exploded, demanding he face how he’d hurt me. He tried to defuse it, but I pushed back hard. I wasn’t about to let him retreat into comfort like nothing ever happened.
I spent the first day avoiding him by the pool, but at night, I heard coughing from the bathroom — blood-stained tissues on the floor. Luther emerged pale and fragile. “Stage four,” he whispered. Cancer. He’d known for six months.
My heart stopped. Then he dropped the real bombshell: he hadn’t won this trip either. He had arranged it. Just to see me — to say he was sorry and that he’d never stopped loving me.
I stood frozen, the ocean breeze brushing past the window. This trip wasn’t luck or a random offer — it was him. A desperate final attempt at closure, confession, and connection.
