But I still had Jacob. And that was enough to make me get up every morning.
Eventually, after the alimony just wasn’t enough to make ends meet, I took a job at a local women’s health clinic. The hours were flexible, and the work gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time, purpose. I wasn’t just someone’s mother or someone’s ex-wife.
I was helping women feel seen and heard. And in a strange, unexpected way, it helped me start healing, too.
I started therapy, almost reluctantly. I journaled at night after Jacob went to sleep, pouring every ache and unanswered question on paper. Grief didn’t leave in waves, it leaked out slowly. In the way I folded laundry. In the way I avoided mirrors.
And in the way I couldn’t step foot in our old bedroom without my throat tightening.
Then, one afternoon while I was restocking prenatal vitamins at work, my phone buzzed.
It was Jamie, a friend from Ethan’s office who always had a talent for knowing everything before anyone else.
“Mel! You won’t believe what happened,” she said, barely containing her laughter. “HR finally caught wind of what Ethan did. Leaving his wife after two surrogacies? It got around fast. And they’ve been questioning his character. He’s been dismissed.”
