Passing By: The Day I Saw Her Again

The fluorescent lights flickered above as I fumbled with my wallet, palms sweating, eyes fixed on the conveyor belt. “Sir, do you have a rewards card?” the cashier asked, but her voice was distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears. That was when I saw her—a flash of red lipstick, a confident laugh, the unmistakable clack of high heels on linoleum. My heart hammered in my chest. It was Emily. My ex-wife.

She was standing just two lanes over, chatting with the bagger, her head thrown back in laughter. There was a lightness in her that I hadn’t seen in years—maybe ever. Her brown hair was shorter, styled in a way that made her look younger, more alive. Her dress hugged her in all the right places, and I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on her ankle, something she never would have dared when we were together. She didn’t see me. Or maybe she did, and just didn’t care.

I froze. The world kept moving, carts squeaking by, someone’s baby crying in the distance, but I was stuck in that moment, watching her fill her reusable bags with organic kale and almond milk. So different from the old days, when we’d argue over whether to buy the store brand or splurge for name brand cereal. I remembered our fights about money, about who was going to pick up the kids, about her job, about my job. About everything and nothing.

The cashier cleared her throat. “Sir? Your total is $42.36.”

I fumbled a twenty, another, coins slipping from my fingers onto the conveyor. The man behind me sighed. I mumbled an apology, keeping my eyes low. God, I hoped Emily wouldn’t notice me. Or did I want her to?

By the time I gathered my groceries, Emily was already heading toward the exit. I watched her go, heels clicking, head high, a smile on her face as she waved to someone outside. Was that her new boyfriend? Husband? Someone better than me, no doubt. The thought stung. I felt like I’d swallowed broken glass.

As I stepped outside into the muggy Georgia air, the memories came flooding back. Our wedding in that tiny Methodist church, the way she laughed during our vows. The day we brought home our daughter, Sophie, and how Emily cried with joy. The first time we fought, and how we swore we’d make up quickly, never go to bed angry. We broke that promise a thousand times.

I remembered the night she left. She stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand, tears streaming down her face. “Jeff, I can’t do this anymore. I need to be happy. I need to love myself.”

“What about us? What about Sophie?” I pleaded.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispered, voice trembling, but I could see the resolve in her eyes. She was gone before I could say another word.

It’s easy to point fingers after a divorce. My mother told me, “She was never good enough for you anyway, Jeff.” My brother insisted, “You’ll bounce back. Plenty of fish in the sea.” But the truth is, I was the one who drifted. I got lost in my job—endless overtime, chasing promotions, convincing myself I was building a future for us, when really I was just avoiding being present. I stopped listening. I stopped noticing the little things: when she switched shampoo, when she started taking evening walks alone, when she stopped asking me to go with her.

After the divorce, I tried dating. I tried being the every-other-weekend dad. But Sophie didn’t look at me the same way. She’d ask, “Why can’t you and Mom just be friends?” I never knew what to say. I missed soccer games, dance recitals, birthdays. I told myself it was because of work, but the truth was, it hurt too much to see Emily moving on.

Now, watching her walk away, I realized I hadn’t moved at all. I was still stuck in that moment she said goodbye, still holding onto anger, regret, and resentment. I wondered if she ever thought of me, if she ever looked back and wondered if things could have been different.

A voice jolted me from my thoughts. “Dad?” Sophie stood by my car, her hair pulled back, phone in hand. She was sixteen now, taller than Emily, with her mother’s eyes and my stubborn jaw.

“Hey, kiddo,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Were you watching Mom?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

I blushed. “I… yeah. I guess I was. She looks happy, doesn’t she?”

Sophie shrugged. “She is. But she misses you, you know. Not like that, but… as a friend. She says you were always a good man. Just lost.”

I swallowed hard. “Maybe I was. Maybe I still am.”

She reached for my hand. “You don’t have to be, Dad.”

We drove home in silence, the radio playing softly. I watched the trees blur past, thinking about all the ways I could have been better—more present, more patient, more grateful. I thought about second chances, about forgiveness, about what it means to truly let go and move forward.

That night, I sat on the porch, beer in hand, cicadas humming in the distance. I thought about Emily, about how she’d changed. I wondered if I could change, too. If it was too late to smile at life and have it smile back at me.

Tell me—do you think people can really change? Or are some regrets just meant to linger forever, like ghosts in the checkout line?