I’m 35, and if you’d told my 28-year-old self that I’d be here, she would have laughed through tears—thinking she knew love, marriage, and the man beside her. Back then, Dorian had a way of making the world shrink until it was just the two of us. Our tiny apartment felt like a palace with our golden retriever, Whiskey, curled between us.
Motherhood arrived fast—Emma, Marcus, and Finn turned my days into a blur of laundry mountains, sticky fingerprints, and sleepless nights. Coffee cooled untouched, and I barely recognized myself in the mirror. One afternoon, juggling three kids, Dorian glanced up from his phone and said, “You look like a scarecrow left in the rain. Kinda… saggy.”
I wanted to throw my coffee, but instead, the words clanged around the kitchen long after he left. Weeks later, I discovered his dating profile—honeymoon photos, bio about cooking and deep conversations. I laughed. The man got winded walking upstairs. I snapped reality into place: photos of him snoring, drooling, choosing the couch over gym. I edited his profile, removing fantasy and replacing it with truth. When it disappeared, the ground felt solid beneath me for the first time in months.
His birthday arrived. I roasted his favorite duck, glazed cherries, whipped silky potatoes, set candles and flowers. He walked in smug. “Now this is more like it,” he said. I smiled, calm. “Go on. Your surprise is ready.” He lifted the cloche—but inside was divorce paperwork. “Think of the kids,” he said. “I am. But I need a life where respect matters,” I said. For the first time, I didn’t reach back when he reached for me. Six months later, I saw him at an intersection, shame in his eyes, hope flickering. I rolled up my window and drove on. That evening, porch glass in hand, I watched my kids laugh, Whiskey by my feet. I looked like a woman who’d just rolled out of bed, messy bun, paint-splattered shirt, bare feet tapping. And I had never felt more beautiful. The woman who shrank for approval was gone. The woman I am now knows she deserves a life of her own, one boundary, one morning off, one deep breath at a time—until the shape of my life became mine again.
