She smiled. “I’m okay being chosen. Eventually.”
I stood up, determined.
“He’s all yours.”
On the drive home, I felt calmer than I expected. Not heartbroken. Not furious.
Just done. Over the next few weeks, I did what had to be done. It was like my body and mind already knew what was happening with Mark and just needed confirmation.
Like my belief that our marriage was perfect was just something I thought to mask the truth that lay deep in my heart. So I quietly filed for separation. Hired a lawyer to arrange our divorce.
Collected documents. Took screenshots. Calculated custody options.
I made sure every move favored Sophie and me. Mark didn’t even try to fight it! He actually moved in with Tina not long after!
Now, from what I hear, things aren’t so shiny. Sophie, who now refuses to visit her father unless he comes over without Tina, returns with stories of the new couple’s arguments over dinner. Complaints about rules, co-parenting, and such.
Mark, once so charismatic, now mutters through drop-offs like a man already tired of his new life! As for me? I’m good now.
I sleep through the night after spending months crying over my failed marriage and feeling not good enough. Grief, I was told. I eventually joined a local Pilates class, got back into sketching, and painted Sophie’s bedroom with glow-in-the-dark stars.
And sometimes, when my daughter brings up the past, her little voice cuts right through all the noise. “Mommy,” she said one night, curling up next to me with her favorite stuffed bear. “Why doesn’t Daddy live with us anymore?”
I looked at her.
Her wide brown eyes, so trusting. “Because he lied about the worms.”
She nodded, serious as ever, as if she understood everything. “Lying is bad.”
“Yep,” I said.
“It is.”
Then she hugged me hard. “I’m glad we have no worms.”
I laughed. “Me too, baby.
Me too.”
