We were all packed and ready to go — D, my elderly parents, and me — and though I worried how my father would handle the journey, everything seemed “fine” on the surface. After all, D was getting what she wanted: a chance to return home.
Traveling with my father was surreal. He no longer recognized much of what was happening around him. Alzheimer’s had taken its toll, and he moved through the world like a visitor — present in body, but distant in mind. Still, being together, going somewhere new, felt meaningful. Even if he wouldn’t remember it, I would.
We were scheduled to fly to Texas — but after we landed, our paths would split. D would continue on to her home country, surprising her parents. The only one who knew she was coming was her brother. She was giddy with excitement, eyes bright at the thought of seeing her family again.
Upon arrival in Dallas, we parted ways — D heading toward her home country, and my parents and I catching a connecting flight to Houston. I was scheduled to attend a work meeting in the U.S., then meet D in her home country five days later. My sister and nephews would join us a week after that.
But we wouldn’t be meeting in the city where her parents lived. We’d be going to the tourist town I had once called home — the place where we first fell in love.
Meanwhile, D surprised her parents by showing up unannounced at their doorstep. Her mother opened the door and said, “What did you do?” Not “I’m so glad to see you,” but something more accusatory — like she assumed the worst: Did you leave him? Are you fighting? Did you already get divorced?
It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t welcoming. But D calmed her down, explained everything — how I had to go to the U.S. for a meeting, how I suggested she travel with me and visit her family, how I’d even brought my entire family along for my father’s final vacation. Her parents were surprised, yes — but also excited to see their daughter after nearly nine months apart.
While she was there, D used the time wisely. She scheduled medical checkups — including a fertility exam — got new glasses, did some shopping, and indulged in the foods she missed most. She was happy to be home. And yet…
She began sending me messages like:
“My mom drives me crazy sometimes. As you once said, she has a sharp tongue — and that’s what makes me want to leave.”
And later:
“Now my mom doesn’t talk to me because I told her I’m feeling weak and dizzy, and I told her that’s manipulation. I want to leave. I can’t stand her!”
So we changed plans again. I booked her a flight back to the beach town where we were staying — away from her mother and her toxic manipulation.
We rented a beautiful Airbnb — a villa right by the ocean, with a semi-private pool and open windows that let in the salty breeze. We were there for almost four weeks, and we tried to make the best of it. Beach walks, local markets, cultural tours, amazing meals. I gave everyone space to explore while I stayed behind with my father, working remotely in the background.
D and I thought this trip could be more than just a vacation — Although she was relieved to be away from her mother, it could be a chance for our families to finally meet. So I flew her parents out for four days, so they could experience the beach town for the first time and spend time with my family.
Although there was a language barrier, it was still nice for our families — from two very different worlds — to come together. We invited them to our Airbnb, and during one of their days with us, my family (minus my father and me) and D’s family went on a beautiful tour of ancient ruins, beaches, and caves. It was a new experience for everyone — something we could all share, even across cultures and languages.
However, something was off. Whenever the group went on a tour, D often chose to stay with my side of the family, following the English-speaking guide rather than spending time with her own parents — people she hadn’t seen in months. There was an invisible tension between her and her mother, even when they tried to hide it.
Still, the trip was good for D. Being back in her home country, surrounded by language and culture she loved, seemed to rejuvenate her. She returned to our shared life with energy, laughter, and a sense of renewal.
Or so I thought.
Nearly a year later, she said something that shattered me completely.
“I thought about suicide,” she said, casually, like it was just another confession. “Because I would rather kill myself than be with you.”
She said those thoughts came long before we even traveled to her home country — before the trip that was supposed to bring her closer to our life.
The words hit like a punch to the chest.
If I was such a villain — someone so terrifying, so unbearable — that she would rather die than be with me… then why did she come back with me?
Why did she build a life across the world with me?
Why did she sit beside me during dinners, hold my hand on walks, cuddle up next to me during movie night?
It didn’t add up.
It left me questioning everything — not just her words, but the entire foundation of our relationship. Was it ever real? Or was I simply a placeholder until she found her next dream?
BPD Chronicles 