When my eight-year-old son, Leo, came home unusually quiet from his father’s house, I knew something was wrong. Children don’t lose their light for no reason. That evening, Leo’s silence carried weight.
I’m Sarah, a single mom rebuilding a life I never planned. Five years ago, I believed in stability, in shared responsibilities, in loyalty. I was wrong.
My ex-husband, Mark, drifted away quietly and left me for his secretary, Tiffany—young, polished, ambitious, and clearly ready to step into a life she assumed I didn’t deserve. When she became pregnant, Mark filed for divorce and moved into a lavish, guarded home, leaving Leo and me in a modest apartment. Somehow, in their story, I became the “bitter ex,” even though I never interfered.
At first, the damage was subtle. Leo returned from visits subdued. He traced patterns on the kitchen table instead of talking. “Tiffany says you don’t like working,” he whispered one night. “That’s why we don’t live in a big house.”
I stayed calm, explaining that work comes in many forms and caring for him is never laziness. But the jabs escalated—mocked sneakers, criticized our home, laughed at my taste. Each visit left bruises he couldn’t name.
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