I will never forget the night everything I believed in shattered.
I came home early—arms full of groceries, mind full of plans for dinner—when I heard faint whispers drifting from my bedroom. At first, I thought I was imagining things. But as I stepped closer, my heart sank. When I pushed the door open, the truth split me in half.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. They froze where they were, scrambling for excuses, grabbing at sheets, searching for words. None of them mattered. I stood there trembling, tears burning my eyes, and asked the only question my broken heart could form:
I loved you both… why?”
They said my name. They begged me to listen. But the betrayal was too deep, too cruel. I packed a small bag, lifted my sleepy toddler into my arms, and walked out into the night.
No screaming. No door slammed.
I simply left.
And I stayed gone for seven years.
Those years were hard. I raised my son alone, working whatever jobs I could find, stretching every paycheck, learning slowly how to live with disappointment. I never told him the truth. I didn’t want my bitterness to poison his childhood. I convinced myself that I’d moved on.
But some wounds settle quietly beneath the skin, pulsing with every heartbeat.
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