Goodbye, Mr. Regret

"Sallie, do you seriously have the nerve to call me right now? Or have you just conveniently forgotten everything that happened?"

She was furious.

Vince gritted his teeth and spat out, "Let me make myself perfectly clear: from this day on, whatever happens to Timothy-whether he lives or dies-has absolutely nothing to do with the Zimmerman family!"

With those words, he hung up.

Sallie nearly threw her phone in frustration.

This was a disaster.

Salome had always been the Zimmermans' favorite. That day, right in front of Vince, she'd called Jessica a mute and accused her of embarrassing the Lawsons just by showing up.

It was no wonder Vince had lost his temper.

But now Timothy had vanished without a trace. Where was she supposed to find him?

Timothy was on the mountain.

He'd returned to the same old abbey he'd visited once before.

He was lucky; just as he walked in, he came across Father Benedict, the abbey's head priest, whom he'd met on his previous visit.

"Father," Timothy greeted him quietly.

Father Benedict pressed his palms together and bowed his head slightly. "Peace be with you, my son."

Timothy had seen enough of the world to know the proper etiquette, and since he'd come seeking the priest's guidance on how to escape his pain, he tried to follow Father Benedict's example, bowing his head and folding his hands. "Peace be with you, Father. I visited your abbey once before, and your words about suffering left a deep impression on me. I have some questions I'd like to ask."

"Please, come this way, my son."

Timothy followed Father Benedict into the meditation hall.

Inside, incense drifted through the air while soft Gregorian chants played in the background. The moment Timothy stepped through the doorway, he was enveloped by a sense of calm and peace.

The turmoil in his heart seemed to quiet, if only for a moment.

They sat down on floor cushions at a low table, where a pot of tea was kept warm. After a brief glance, Father Benedict poured Timothy a cup of tea.

"Heartbroken, are you?" the priest asked gently.

Timothy, who was usually so composed—almost unreadable-couldn't hide his surprise. It wasn't often that anyone could see straight through him.

"How did you know?" he asked.

Father Benedict smiled, unhurried. "It's written all over your face."

Timothy frowned. He prided himself on keeping his emotions in check.

Now that his feelings were out in the open, there was no point hiding them. He got straight to the point: "How do I ease the pain of unfulfilled longing and the suffering of losing someone I love?"

"And how do you think it can be eased?" Father Benedict asked in return.

Timothy answered honestly, "If she came back to me, if we could go back to our old life together, then the pain would stop. But she refuses. She's gone, and I fear she may never come back."

Father Benedict was quiet for a while before he spoke, "When an addict is overwhelmed by withdrawal, what's the first thing he thinks about?"

"Taking the drug," Timothy replied.

"And if he does, does the pain go away for good?"

"No. The pain just comes back the next time."

Father Benedict nodded, satisfied. "So, do you understand now?"

Timothy paused, thinking it over. "You mean, for an addict, the relief from pain is only temporary. Taking the drug eases the suffering for a moment, but it doesn't solve the problem."

"That's right. The pain ebbs for a little while, and the person feels happiness what we call false

happiness. It's not real joy, just the absence of pain. The deeper the suffering, the more intense the fleeting relief, but that only feeds greater pain in the end. So, the more you love, the heavier the pain when you lose it."

Timothy felt a chill run through him. He understood the logic.

But he couldn't do it.

"I'm not sure I agree. If my wife came back to me and we lived as we used to, wouldn't that take the pain away? Isn't that different?"

"Does the addict truly solve his pain by taking the drug? Does someone who never started ever suffer withdrawal? The only real cure is to quit entirely. Only then can the pain disappear."

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Seeing the confusion on Timothy's face, Father Benedict went on, "Some people are obsessed with getting promoted-if it doesn't happen, they're miserable. Some crave the love of a particular person-when that person leaves, they're miserable. Others are obsessed with making money-no matter how hard they try, they never have enough, and that brings misery, too. The specifics change, but the pain is the same as the addict's. Can you see the difference?"

Timothy stared at the priest, calm and at ease before him. "So you're telling menoveldrama

that if I let go of my wife, my pain will truly end?"

"What do you think?" Father Benedict replied.

Timothy pressed his lips together in silence.

No desire, no pain.

He understood what the priest meant.

But he couldn't let go.

Just like an addict can't quit cold turkey, like someone yearning for promotion

keeps chasing it, like those desperate for wealth never stop wanting more.

He knew that only by letting go could he be free from pain. But all he wanted was

for Jessica to come back to him.

"Father, what if I can't let go?" he asked quietly.

"Then you'll keep suffering. Or,

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maybe someday your wife will return, and you'll feel happier than ever, and all the more afraid of losing her again. And if she does leave again, your pain will be even greater than it is now. This is why most people can't escape suffering. They believe that getting what they want is the answer, never realizing that every fulfilled desire only creates new ones. The more you want, the deeper the pain when you lose it."