Is It Wrong That I Asked My Boyfriend For An Open Relationship
Memories and Betrayal
I left before she could make the call. On the drive back, I passed the coffee shop where we had our first date.
I pulled over and went inside, ordering the same vanilla latte he’d recommended to me that day. The barista was new, probably around my age.
She complimented my necklace, the one Derrick gave me for our first anniversary. I touched it reflexively, remembering how he’d fastened it around my neck and said it looked like it belonged there.
When I got home, my mom was in my room taking down all the text messages I’d taped to the walls. She had them in a neat pile on my desk.
I screamed at her to leave them alone, that she didn’t understand what Derrick and I had. She turned around with tears in her eyes and said, “Madison, we need to talk about Derek.”
She sat me down and pulled out her own phone, showing me text messages between her and my dad from 3 years ago. They were discussing whether they should intervene in my relationship.
My dad had written, “She’s 19 and he’s 38. This isn’t right.”
My mom had responded, “But every time we try to bring it up, she has an explanation and he’s so polite when he comes over. Maybe we’re overreacting.”
I felt betrayed that they’d been talking about my relationship behind my back. My mom scrolled to more recent messages where they discussed how I never spent time with anyone my own age anymore.
They talked about how I’d stopped mentioning my college friends and how every story I told somehow involved Derek. There was one from last month where my dad wrote, “I’m scared we’re losing her.”
My mom put her phone away and held my hands. She told me about a conversation she’d had with Derrick at my birthday dinner last year.
She’d casually mentioned that my high school friend Sarah had reached out wanting to reconnect with me. Derrick had taken her aside later and explained that Sarah was a toxic influence who had always been jealous of me and that it would be better if I didn’t know she’d called.
My mom admitted she’d believed him because he seemed so concerned for my well-being. I pulled my hands away.
Sarah had been my best friend since middle school. I couldn’t believe she’d tried to reach out and no one told me.
I grabbed my phone to look her up on social media, but I’d blocked her on everything. I couldn’t even remember why.
I remembered something about her not understanding my relationship with Derek, being jealous, and saying things that weren’t true. The words felt like Derrick’s words in my mouth.
My laptop was still at Derrick’s apartment with most of my clothes, my jewelry, my work files, and everything that mattered. I texted him asking when I could pick up my things.
He responded within minutes with a formal message saying I could coordinate with building management to retrieve my belongings during business hours and that he would not be present. He’d already packed everything and left it with the doorman.
I drove back to his building feeling numb. The doorman Robert, who’d always been so friendly, barely looked at me as he helped load three boxes and two suitcases into my car.
Five years of my life fit into the trunk of my Honda Civic. When I opened the first box at home, I found all my photos carefully wrapped and my clothes neatly folded.
My toiletries were in labeled bags. Even in kicking me out, Derrick had to show how organized and thoughtful he was.
At the bottom of one box, I found the notebook where I used to write down all the advice Derrick gave me. I flipped through pages of his wisdom.
“Your friends don’t understand our connection because they’re still children,” he wrote. “Your parents mean well, but they don’t see how mature you’ve become. You don’t need other people when you have me.”
My handwriting looked so young and eager, with little hearts dotting the I’s. Tyler texted me that evening asking if I was okay.
He’d heard through mutual friends that Derrick and I had broken up. I stared at his message for an hour before responding.
Derrick had always said Tyler was immature and still stuck in a high school mentality, not someone I should waste time on. But Tyler was the first person my age to reach out to me in months.
The Warehouse and the Pattern
We met at a Starbucks the next day. Tyler looked exactly the same as in high school, just with better clothes and a real job now.
He told me he’d actually tried to message me on Instagram last year for my birthday, but I’d never responded. I checked my message requests and found dozens of unread messages from old friends, former classmates, and people I’d once been close to.
I’d never seen them because Derrick had set up my social media accounts to filter messages from anyone he hadn’t approved. Tyler mentioned that Sarah worked at the marketing firm just two blocks from my office.
She’d apparently asked about me whenever she ran into mutual friends, always hoping I was doing well despite how our friendship ended. I couldn’t remember how it ended.
The memory felt foggy, like looking through frosted glass. I remembered something about her not supporting my relationship, being jealous of my happiness, and trying to poison me against Derrick.
But the words felt scripted and rehearsed. I asked Tyler why he’d reached out now.
He looked uncomfortable and said he’d actually seen me at the grocery store last month with Derek. He said I’d looked right through him like he wasn’t there, and Derrick had steered me away by the elbow when Tyler tried to wave.
He said I looked different, older but not in a good way, like someone had dimmed my light. That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the filtered messages and all the friends who’d tried to stay in touch.
I made a list of everyone I’d lost contact with since dating Derek. The list filled three pages.
Next to each name, I tried to remember why we’d stopped talking. The reasons all sounded the same: they were jealous, they were immature, they didn’t understand real love, or they were toxic influences.
They were Derrick’s words, not mine. My first day at the warehouse was humiliating.
My new supervisor Linda was kind but clearly confused about why someone with my experience was transferred there. She mentioned that this was the third young woman from the main office to be transferred to the warehouse in the past five years.
“Strange coincidence,” she said. But her eyes suggested she didn’t think it was a coincidence at all.
During my lunch break, I sat in my car and finally unblocked Sarah on Facebook. Her profile picture showed her laughing at someone’s wedding, surrounded by people our age.
She looked happy and normal and young in a way I’d forgotten I could be. I spent 20 minutes typing and deleting a message to her.
How do you apologize for disappearing from someone’s life when you can’t even remember why you left? I finally sent Sarah a simple message.
“Hi, I know it’s been years. I’m sorry.”
My finger hovered over the send button for another five minutes before I pressed it. The message showed as read almost immediately, and three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.
“Madison, is this really you?” Sarah’s response came through.
I typed back that yes, it was me, and I understood if she didn’t want to talk. Her next message made my chest tight: “I’ve been waiting for this message for four years. Can we meet?”
