I’m 35, and the woman I was seven years ago would never believe this. Back then, Dorian’s crooked smile could shrink a room to just us. Our shoebox with Whiskey, our golden retriever, felt like a palace. He whispered promises of a beautiful life.
The surprises came: Emma, Marcus, and Finn—each love and chaos in their own way. Motherhood blurred me into someone I barely recognized. Instead of seeing me, Dorian mocked. Then came texts, lies, a dating profile. I gathered proof, gathered courage. On his birthday, under candlelight, I served divorce papers instead of duck. Today, I sit barefoot on the porch, kids laughing, Whiskey at my side. I never disappeared. I was waiting for myself to return.
