The divorce was quick.
I didn’t fight for the house.
I didn’t want it.
Every room felt like a minefield of memories.
I moved into a small apartment across town. One bedroom. Barely furnished.
But it was mine.
Quiet. Clean. Free.
Months later, my mom called again.
“They’ve decided to get married. The baby’s coming soon. It’s the right thing.”
I took a breath.
“You really think that’s right?”
“It’s not about you anymore.”
“I am thinking about the child,” I said softly. “A child raised by two people who destroyed a marriage.”
