I Got an Email from My Ex. It Was Polite and Utterly Useless
What Do You Say to the Person Who Broke You, Healed Themselves, and Then Came Back to Thank You for the Crash Course?
Eight years ago, I dated someone who mistook detachment for depth.
She intellectualized pain like it was a TED Talk nobody asked for. Criticism was “constructive.” Ignoring me was “boundaries.” And tossing my cat off my chest? “Just a reflex.”
I wasn’t dating a person. I was dating a walking disclaimer.
When I cried, she called it “processing.”
When I flinched, I was “too sensitive.”
And when she finally left, it was “bad timing.”
It wasn’t. It was emotional mildew. And last week, she emailed.
Exhibit A: The Warm-Up Email a.k.a. Soft-Ghosting Resurrection
“You’ve crossed my mind quite a bit lately.”
“Something told me to reach out.”
“I hope you, Aries, and Leo are doing well.”
Nothing like naming the cats before naming the harm. It was cautious. Polished. The PR equivalent of sniffing the air before entering a crime scene you once set ablaze.
And then came the sequel.
Exhibit B: The “Apology” That Could’ve Been Auto-Generated
She led with fear:
“I wasn’t sure if reaching out would be welcome.”
Then she swung the therapy bat:
“I’ve been healing. Growing. Learning.”
And closed it with a Hallmarkian ghost fart:
“Wishing you love, peace, and happiness always.”
But the showstopper was this line:
“I’m sorry for any hurt I may have caused.”
Oh babe. That’s not an apology. That’s a damage control clause.
Imagine backing over someone’s foot with your car, then handing them a Starbucks gift card and saying, “Sorry if this was, like... inconvenient.”
When Your Ex Morphs into a Motivational Poster
Nobody warns you that sometimes the person who wrecked you finds peace first.
And then shows up in your inbox sounding like a 3-minute Headspace meditation.
“I learned so much from our time together.”
I’m sure you did. I was the unpaid internship. You were the intern who took the coffee and left.
My Reply? Measured. But Built for Maximum Damage.
“Thanks for your message. I wasn’t sure I’d respond, but here we are.”
Civil. Cool. The kind of line that lets them know you could burn their house down but you’ve redecorated yours instead.
I offered a few curated memories:
“Karaoke. The movie nights.”
Then slid in the truth like a knife under velvet:
“Some of it was good. A lot of it wasn’t. We weren’t a good match. We kept dragging it along anyway—bleeding out and calling it bonding.”
Frame it. Needlepoint it. Hang it above the bed of anyone confusing pain for passion.
And then I closed:
“I’m not looking to unpack it. I don’t think it needs unpacking. The cats are well, thank you.”
Translation: I don’t need closure. I built an entirely new door.
When “Closure” Comes Gift-Wrapped in Faux Sincerity
This wasn’t an email. It was a Pinterest quote trying to gentrify regret.
She didn’t want to reconnect. She wanted to feel absolved. And I gave her exactly what she gave me for years: polite silence with no instructions.
Emotional Abuse Isn’t Loud. It’s Subtle. Strategic. Polite.
It wasn’t yelling. It was withholding.
It wasn’t hitting. It was gaslighting until I doubted my own name.
It was crying over her broken mug while calling me “too much” for needing comfort.
It was “guess what you did wrong” followed by reward hugs when I guessed right.
It was slow. It was polite. It was fatal.
So, No. We’re Not Reconnecting. We’re Rewriting.
I didn’t respond for closure. I responded because I could. Because I’m healed, hydrated, and have better boundaries than she has eyebrows now.
And I gave her the thing she always wanted: peace.
Just not the way she meant it.
If You’ve Gotten “That” Email—Read This
You don’t owe them forgiveness.
You don’t owe them witness to their redemption arc.
Their healing doesn’t make them holy. It just makes them late.
And you? You’re free. Not because they said sorry.
But because you stopped needing them to.
Some Apologies Aren’t for You. They’re for Their LinkedIn Bio.
She wanted to wrap it all up in cursive and closure. A neat little bow on a story she thinks she can still narrate.
But baby I archived that chapter ages ago.
And spoiler: the villain doesn’t get a rebrand just because she started signing her name with a “💙.”
I didn’t reply to fix anything.
I replied because healed women don’t burn bridges.
We build better ones and charge a toll.
About the Author
Sara from Brewtiful Living is a writer, book addict, and recovering people-pleaser who now channels her inner Jenna Rink. Her hobbies include writing, reading, and crafting emotionally layered replies that sound polite but leave a sting. She no longer accepts closure in lowercase emails. The cats are thriving. So is she.
Read more unfiltered honesty at brewtifulliving.com.
