On the beach, a very young kid came up to me with compliments.

I said, “Thank you, but I have a husband and 2 children.”

In the evening, laughing, I tell this story to my mom.

And she is like, “You do know that kids sometimes see the truth adults are scared to say out loud?”

At first, I roll my eyes and toss a chip at her, half-laughing. “What truth? That I look tired and married?”

She gives me that look—tight-lipped, slightly amused but also quietly serious. “Maybe he saw something in you. Something you’re not saying yet.”

I brush it off, but later that night, I lie awake in the tiny guest bedroom of my mom’s beachside condo, hearing the waves crash like they’re trying to remind me of something I forgot.

My husband, Renan, didn’t come on this trip. Said he had work. He always has work. Our twins, Amina and Jules, are seven now—old enough to play independently, but still young enough to want to show me every sandcastle they build, every shell they find.

And still, I feel…alone.

That little boy on the beach, no older than five, had looked at me with this innocent grin and said, “You look like a princess!” I laughed and thanked him, playing along, then gave him the standard “I’m a mom” speech out of habit. But something about it had unsettled me. Not the compliment. The way I had automatically used my family as a shield.

Like I was reminding myself more than him.

The next morning, I woke up early and went for a walk. The air was soft and salty, and I could hear seagulls fighting over God-knows-what. My mom was already up, drinking her bitter black coffee and scrolling through her tablet.

“You good?” she asked without looking up.

“Fine. Just needed to move.”

“You’ve been moving a lot lately.”

I pause at the door, hand on the knob. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looks at me now, really looks. “You seem like you’re looking for something. Or trying not to find something.”

I didn’t reply. Just kept walking. I wasn’t in the mood for cryptic mom wisdom.

Out on the sand, the tide was low and a few early risers were already out with their metal detectors. I passed them, keeping my head down, thinking about nothing and everything.

I hadn’t told Renan about the trip until the week before. He barely blinked.

“Take the kids, have fun,” he said, eyes still on his laptop. “You’ll be back before the board meeting.”

I wanted him to say, “I’ll miss you,” or even, “I’ll come too.”

But he didn’t.

That day on the beach, I saw the little boy again. This time, he was with his older sister, maybe nine or ten. They were building a moat around a crumbling sandcastle. The boy saw me and waved.

“Princess!” he shouted.

His sister looked horrified and smacked his arm. “Don’t say that to strangers!”

I laughed. “It’s okay.”

He grinned and kept digging.

I ended up sitting nearby, not close enough to intrude, but close enough to watch them work. There was something calming about it. They didn’t argue about design. They didn’t overthink. They just built together, quietly determined.

The mom showed up a little while later with a thermos and snacks. She looked tired, but soft. She noticed me watching and gave me a polite smile. I returned it and was about to leave when she called out, “You look familiar. Were you at the school open house last fall?”

I blinked. “No, I’m just visiting. I live in Asheville.”

“Oh. You just have that kind of face. Like someone who’s supposed to be here.”

That line stuck with me. Someone who’s supposed to be here.

That evening, I Facetimed Renan. He answered on the fourth ring, dark office behind him.

“Hey,” I said. “The kids want to show you what they built today.”

He smiled, distracted. “Sure. Let me see.”

They held up their shell collection and talked over each other. He nodded, threw in the right reactions, but I could tell—his head was still at work.

When the kids ran off, I stayed on the call.

“So,” I said slowly, “How’s everything?”

“Busy,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “Can’t wait for next quarter to end.”

I hesitated. Then I said it.

“I miss you.”

He looked up, confused, like I’d spoken another language. “Oh. Yeah. Miss you too.”

Then he asked if we were out of dishwasher pods.

That night, I went out with my mom. We got shrimp tacos and shared a margarita. On the walk back, she asked, out of nowhere, “Are you in love with your husband?”

I nearly tripped. “Mom!”

She shrugged. “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just asking.”

I chewed my lip. “I don’t know what love looks like anymore. He’s a good man. He’s never cheated. He provides. He helps with the kids. We don’t fight.”

She nodded. “But you don’t laugh.”

That landed like a punch. Because it was true.

The last time Renan made me laugh—really laugh—was probably a year ago, when he slipped on a rogue grape and turned it into an elaborate, dramatic performance like he was auditioning for a slapstick film.

Lately, he barely made eye contact.

The next day, I walked into town for a coffee and wandered into a bookstore. A guy in a blue apron was arranging a stack of travel memoirs and singing under his breath.

He looked up and smiled. “Need a recommendation or just escaping children?”

I laughed. “Both.”

We talked for maybe ten minutes. His name was Odhran—Irish, he said, but born and raised right there in town. He was in his early forties, divorced, co-parenting a cat with his ex-wife. He had kind eyes and didn’t ask for my number or flirt. But he listened.

Before I left, he said, “You have this quiet… ache to you. You should write about it.”

I looked at him, surprised. “You a therapist now too?”

He chuckled. “No. Just someone who’s lived through a few silent heartbreaks.”

That night, I started writing. Nothing major. Just notes on my phone. Sentences like He doesn’t see me anymore, and Maybe comfort is just another kind of loneliness.

My mom found me on the balcony, curled up with my phone and a blanket. “You used to write poems in middle school. Remember?”

I smiled faintly. “Yeah. About unicorns and crushes.”

“Maybe it’s time to write grown-up poems.”

Two days later, Renan called. Not to say he missed us. Not to check in.

He was upset.

“Why’d you spend $42 at a bookstore?”

I stared at the phone. “Are you serious?”

“It just popped up on the statement. I was making sure it wasn’t fraud.”

“I bought books, Renan. For the kids. And maybe one for myself.”

Silence.

Then, “Okay. Just… maybe let me know next time?”

It wasn’t about the money. It was about control. The quiet erosion of autonomy I hadn’t noticed until it cracked open.

That afternoon, I saw Odhran again. He was eating a sandwich on a bench outside the bookstore. I joined him, uninvited.

“I think my marriage is breaking,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “Does it feel like a slow leak, or did something explode?”

“Slow leak. But I think I’ve been holding the plug in for years.”

We talked for an hour. Nothing romantic. Just two strangers naming their ghosts.

Before I left, he said, “Even castles crumble when you build them too close to the tide.”

I didn’t know what that meant until I got back to the beach and saw Amina crying. Her sandcastle—her masterpiece—was gone. Swallowed by the sea.

I held her, whispered, “It’s okay, baby. We’ll build another.”

The last night before we left, my mom gave me a folded napkin. Inside, she’d written a note.

You are allowed to rebuild. Not everything broken has to be fixed. Love, Mom.

When we got home, I didn’t say anything to Renan. Just watched. Watched how he kissed the kids, but not me. Watched how he sat next to me on the couch but didn’t reach for my hand.

The next morning, I asked if we could talk.

We ended up walking around the block while the kids were at school.

I told him I was lonely. That I didn’t feel seen. That I was scared we were roommates with rings.

To his credit, he didn’t get defensive. He said, “I didn’t know. I thought we were okay.”

“We’re not not okay,” I replied. “But we’re not good, either.”

Then I asked, “When’s the last time you missed me?”

He didn’t answer.

A month later, we started couples counseling. It wasn’t magic. It didn’t fix everything. But it cracked something open. We began to talk again. Real talk. Hard talk. And slowly—painfully—we started to rebuild. Not the old marriage. A new one.

He started joining us for walks. He laughed more. He even surprised me with a book one day—something he thought I’d like.

It wasn’t a fairy tale ending. But it was real.

And here’s the twist I didn’t see coming:

That little boy on the beach? His mom emailed me six months later. Turns out we have a mutual friend. She said her son still talks about the “sad princess” he saw that day, and how he hopes “her castle is stronger now.”

I cried when I read that.

Because maybe kids do see the truth adults try to bury.

And maybe sometimes, the smallest strangers hold the biggest mirrors.

If you’ve ever felt like your castle is crumbling, just know: you can build again. Even better, even stronger.
If this spoke to you, hit like or share—it might be the nudge someone else needs.