He didn’t argue.
“You let me choose you,” I said slowly, “without telling me who you really were.”
Silence filled the room.
My mother spoke again, softer now.
“We were wrong too,” she said. “For cutting you off. For not being there.”
I heard her, but I couldn’t feel it yet.
I looked back at him.
“I need you to leave.”
He broke.
“Please don’t do this. We have a life. A child.”
“I had a life too,” I said. “And I gave it up for something I thought was real.”
I packed a bag again.
But this time, I wasn’t a scared teenager.
I packed for myself and my son.
When I walked out, I didn’t look back.
I picked up my son and told him we were going to stay somewhere else for a while.
He didn’t question it. He just smiled.
When my parents opened the door and saw him, everything changed again.
They cried. They apologized. For everything.
I didn’t forgive them immediately.
But I stayed.
The divorce was hard. Messy. Painful.
I didn’t want to hate him.
I just couldn’t stay.
Now, I’m rebuilding.
A new home. A new routine. A new version of my life.
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