No one really believes Michael Patrick King and Sarah Jessica Parker planned to end Carrie Bradshaw’s story in the third season — and the most drawn-out thirty minutes of all episodes prove the suspicion right. In the threadbare plot they tried to use to entertain us, as they once did so brilliantly in Sex and the City, the pacing felt endless.

I was wrong in all my predictions: there was no Samantha, no grand gestures. Carrie, who once chased that “zsa zsa zum,” is now breathless, without curiosity, without appeal. The farewell was — excuse the repetition — “soulless,” without passion, without charm. The most memorable scene was literally poop floating up and out of Miranda’s toilet, a perfect image for And Just Like That’s farewell: pure crap. Since when has the show become this graphic?

To make matters worse, there was a pretension of deeper questioning — the kind the original Carrie did so well.

We find Carrie nostalgic and confused, pressed by the realization that she is alone. She has lunch at a futuristic restaurant (I’ll have to update my address book) and, even surrounded by technology and robots, is confronted with her solitude. Talking to Charlotte, she mentions Big’s name with some respect for the first time in years — she doesn’t say Aidan was better in bed, for instance — and admits she never imagined her life would end up this way. Even as a widow, she believed another love would come and bet everything on Aidan. When that failed, there was Duncan. But now… is she simply tired of wanting someone? Or is this desire just another form of social programming for women?

This was one of the great feminist complaints about Sex and the City: in the end, all four protagonists wound up married or in relationships, much to the frustration of fans who wanted to see them fully independent. Keep that in mind.

After spending the whole season complaining about Herbert, Lisa decides not to get involved with her editor and to bet on her marriage instead. I mention this only because her storyline never truly fit the series.

Charlotte and Harry skip Thanksgiving at Miranda’s, are happy together, and, thanks to the return of his erections (yes, that was actually a subplot), sex is back in the Goldenblatt household. Rock decides to pursue acting, while Lily remains narratively adrift.

Seema and Adam continue their perfect life until she’s disappointed to learn he doesn’t believe in marriage. This happens just as she joins Carrie, Lisa, and Charlotte for a wedding dress show. Emotionally, she confesses she has imagined her wedding since childhood and, at 60, still dreams of it. But with Adam, it won’t happen. She asks Carrie why she wanted to marry, and Carrie replies: “To feel chosen.” It was one of the best lines of all three seasons — even if recycled from a SATC episode. In the same scene, Lisa and Charlotte discuss how daily life kills love; Charlotte, true to form, insists on believing in marriage, and Lisa ends up agreeing. End of Lisa.

On Thanksgiving morning, Carrie bumps into Adam and asks about his plans with Seema. He says he wants to spend his life with her, and Carrie is touched. Giuseppe and Anthony are happy, which leaves us with Miranda.

Miranda’s arc was a disaster for the series — that’s just a fact. Everyone bailed on her Thanksgiving, including Joy, who made up a dog emergency. Brady is still barely speaking to her, furious at having to spend the holiday with the girl he got pregnant and can hardly stand. Steve and Miranda had dinner the night before and talked about how strange it would be to become grandparents, but that “Everything will work out.” I have my doubts.

As with any Thanksgiving, drama is guaranteed. Miranda abandons her own gathering to run after Joy, leaving Carrie to host Brady and his mother’s random friends. There’s also a potential love interest, set up by Charlotte, but with zero chemistry. Even so, Carrie stays composed: saying the right things, polite, and accommodating. Who is this woman?

Miranda eventually returns, shares a laugh with Carrie, and Joy reappears, suggesting the lawyer may have finally gotten love right. Yes, there was the poop scene I already mentioned, and Carrie heads back alone to her enormous house.

She looks at the space that is all hers. No need to take off her heels — there’s no Duncan downstairs complaining about the noise. She is alone. What does she do? She grabs the karaoke machine Miranda left her, plays Barry White’s You’re the First, My Last, My Everything, and dances alone. Then she goes to her computer and deletes the epilogue she was writing: “The woman was not alone: she was on her own.” And so, forever, ends the story of Carrie Bradshaw, with the credits rolling to Sex and the City’s iconic theme.

When did SJP and MPK drift so far from their fans? In three seasons of And Just Like That, they didn’t deliver a single truly decent episode. All were bad, rushed, or incoherent. They got inclusion wrong, got the “fixes” wrong, got everything wrong — and managed to deeply tarnish a franchise that was once beloved and iconic.

In the end, And Just Like That wasn’t a revival — it was a eulogy. It didn’t celebrate the growth of Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte; it reduced them to awkward caricatures of themselves. It lost its timing, its charm, and, above all, its connection to the audience who once followed every step, every stiletto, and every metaphor Carrie Bradshaw ever spun. The goodbye wasn’t sweet or bittersweet — it was empty. And for a show that once changed the way we saw adult life, that is the real tragedy.