I gave him the letter after the kids went to bed. He read it slowly, eyes scanning the pages.
“I know what you did,” I’d written. “About the shoebox. About Dad. About the credit card. And about how you picked me. I stayed silent for a long time, trying to be the glue. But I wasn’t a wife to you—I was an employee you didn’t pay. This isn’t about revenge. This is about truth. I’m leaving. You’ll find the kids’ schedules, contacts, and notes in the folder by the fridge. They’re your responsibility. They always were.”
When he finished reading, he looked up, shocked. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
I just smiled, quietly.
Two weeks later, I moved into a small rental with a tiny balcony and ugly green carpets. But it was mine. All mine.
I got a job at a local bookstore. The kind of place that smells like old pages and cinnamon tea. It didn’t pay much, but it filled my soul.
One day, while rearranging a display, a woman walked in with her daughter. The girl looked like Liv. My throat caught for a second. I missed her.
I missed Teddy’s laugh. The way he used to run into the room and wrap his arms around me without a word.
I wrote them letters. I didn’t know if Grayson would let them read them. But I had to try.
Then, about three months later, I got a knock on the door.
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