They say the true colors of a person show when a relationship falls apart. Mine glowed neon when my husband of ten years took the door handles after our divorce because he “paid for them.” I stayed silent and let karma do its thing. Sure enough, my ex called me almost in tears three days later.
I stood at the kitchen window, my fingers wrapped around a mug of lukewarm coffee, watching the rain streak down the glass.
The reflection staring back at me wasn’t the same woman who’d said “I do” a decade ago. That woman had dreams. She believed in forever.
“Mom, Emma took my dinosaur again!” Ethan’s voice broke through my thoughts as he stomped into the kitchen, his six-year-old face twisted in frustration.
“Did not!
It was mine first!” Emma followed after him, all nine years of her radiating righteous indignation.
I set my mug down and knelt between them, fixing Emma’s braid. “Guys, remember our talk about sharing?”
“But Daddy never shares his stuff with us,” Emma muttered, her eyes downcast.
My heart clenched. Kids notice everything.
They’d seen how Mike retreated further away from us with each passing day. His possessions were more sacred than family time and his buddies were more important than bedtime stories.
“Where is Daddy, anyway?” Ethan asked, the dinosaur dispute momentarily forgotten.
“He’s…” I hesitated. “He’s packing some things.”
The reality was I’d finally done it.
After months of counseling attempts, tearful nights, and desperate prayers, I filed for divorce three weeks ago. The papers had been served yesterday.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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