I’m Beatrix, and at 60 years old, I was finally choosing myself. After decades of putting everyone else first, I’d sewn my own blush-pink wedding dress—a symbol of a new beginning. I expected my wedding day to be filled with nerves, joy, and celebration.
I didn’t expect my daughter-in-law to publicly mock me.
But I also didn’t expect my son to step in the way he did.
My life hadn’t exactly been gentle.
I married young, full of hope, only to have my husband walk out when our son, Lachlan, was barely three. His parting words were cold:
“I don’t want to share you with a kid.”
He took a suitcase. He left the bills. He took the ease. He left the weight.
I remember standing in the kitchen, holding Lachlan with one arm and overdue notices with the other. There wasn’t time for heartbreak—I had a child to raise. So I got to work.
Receptionist by day. Waitress by night. At home, I cooked, cleaned, folded laundry, and powered through exhaustion that sat deep in my bones.
Continue reading on next page…