The images and names in this story have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

It feels wrong to say it, but it’s the truth: I was happier when he was in prison.

When he was behind bars, there was a certain rhythm to life. I knew where he was, I knew he was safe, and I knew what to expect. Our visits were limited, our conversations brief, but there was a strange comfort in the routine. I had built my life around those phone calls, those letters, those visits. I missed him, of course, but there was a sense of control, a way to manage the distance and the pain.

I spent years dreaming of the day he would come home, imagining all the ways our lives would change for the better. I pictured us walking hand in hand, laughing, building a future together. But when that day finally came, it wasn’t like I had imagined. Not at all.

The man who came home wasn’t the man I had been holding onto in my mind. He was distant, irritable, and sometimes even a stranger. The prison had taken something from him that I couldn’t understand, let alone fix. I kept telling myself it was just an adjustment period, that things would get better, that we just needed time. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, I found myself feeling more alone than ever.

In prison, he was a voice on the other end of the phone, someone I could comfort and support. Out here, he was someone I didn’t recognize, someone whose pain was too big for me to handle. The man I had missed so much was now in front of me, yet it felt like he was a million miles away.

I never expected to feel this way. I never thought I would long for the days when he was locked up, but I do. At least then, I knew how to love him. Out here, I’m lost. I don’t know how to reach him, how to help him, or how to find the happiness we both thought would come so easily.

It’s a hard thing to admit, that sometimes the fantasy of freedom is easier to bear than the reality. I wanted so badly for everything to be perfect, for all our struggles to disappear the moment he walked through that door. But life doesn’t work that way. The reality of loving someone who has been to prison is complicated and messy, and it doesn’t always come with a happy ending.

I was happier when he was in prison, and that’s something I never thought I’d say. It breaks my heart to feel this way, but it’s the truth. Now, I have to find a way to navigate this new reality, to figure out what happiness looks like now that he’s home—and to accept that it may not be the picture-perfect life I once dreamed of.

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