The Tranquil Vintessa

I talk a lot about leaving—relationships, friendships, whatever kind of ship that no longer serves me. People think it’s always some dramatic, impulsive decision, but that’s rarely true. Even when it looks sudden, there’s usually been a slow build-up: me quietly weighing the pros and cons of having you in my life. When it gets to that point, you’re probably already working my nerves.

Sometimes, though, there’s no real conflict. No explosive moment. Just a quiet realization that this—whatever “this” is—doesn’t serve me anymore. The vibe’s off. The purpose has expired. And just like that, I walk. No need for closure. None offered. Clean break. Done.

But this time felt… different. A little sadder. More final. And there was an awkward goodbye that stuck with me.

Since moving down South, I haven’t seen much of my extended family. Maryland held too much pain, too many memories I had no reason to revisit. No one checked in, so I never felt like I was missing out. Then one day, my uncle called out of nowhere and invited me to something called “Cousins Day”—a tradition I didn’t even know existed.

It had been nearly a decade since I’d been back, so I figured… why not?

It was fine. Not bad. Just… off. None of my cousins are my age—either ten years older or their kids, who I don’t know. I ended up talking to aunts and uncles mostly. I got the usual questions. The surprised looks when I said I had no kids, lived on my own, and supported myself fully. At the end, one aunt took my hands and told me she was proud of me.

I nodded, but the whole thing felt strange.

On the ride home, I played the day back in my mind. I thought about how awkward it was trying to show my uncle my writing and how his first question was, “Is it appropriate?” Like I’d hand him erotica at a family event. I thought about the weirdly sympathetic looks. The “I’m proud of you” that somehow felt like pity. And I couldn’t help but wonder: what do they really think of me?

Do they see me as some kind of fuck-up? A whore? A worldly woman who’s loose, unanchored, disturbed?

The truth is, these people never really knew me. They didn’t call, didn’t check in, didn’t invite me to things before. And now that I’ve come around, it feels like I’m under a microscope. As if the way I live needs defending.

That ride home was the last time I’ll ever see that side of the family. They won’t hear from me again. Just like the cousins who barely show up, I’ll become a “remember when?”—maybe someone they’ll see at a funeral.

And while there’s sadness there, it’s not really about leaving. It’s about realizing how they really saw me all along.

Some people only see what they want to see. And I’ll be damned if I ever shrink myself to fit into that limited view. I’ve cried too many tears, survived too much, fought too hard to be here. So when I crossed that state line back into my real life, I felt peace.

That last little thread—cut.