He told me flatly he wanted a divorce, called me “lazy,” and even said his mistress would be staying the night. I was numb but refused to crumble. That night, I packed up Lily and Max, drove to my mother’s house, and promised myself we’d be okay.
Three years later, Lily was thriving in high school, Max was winning robotics contests, and our laughter filled every corner of our little house. Then, one rainy afternoon, I saw them again—Stan and Miranda, sitting at a shabby café. The “perfect” couple looked anything but.
His face was tired, his clothes wrinkled; her designer bag was scuffed and her heels worn down. When our eyes met, he rushed to me, begging for forgiveness and to see the kids again. Miranda snapped at him, exposed his financial failures, and walked away.
I hadn’t just survived; I had bloomed without him.
