She explained, as only a child can, that she’d been to the woman’s house and seen red “worms” on her bed. I gently asked who she meant. Sophie pointed to Tina—a colleague of Mark’s I’d seen at a few events. Always friendly. Always nearby.
My heart began to race.
Trying to stay composed, I later asked Mark about it. At first, he dismissed it. Said Sophie must have seen hair curlers—those red foam ones. He claimed they stopped by to pick up paperwork, and nothing more. But his body language told a different story. He looked uneasy. Avoidant.
Later that night, once Sophie was asleep, I asked again. The pieces didn’t fit. His explanations faltered, and what remained was silence. It said more than words ever could.
Still searching for clarity, I reached out to Tina under the pretense of event planning. We met for coffee, and after a polite start, I calmly mentioned Sophie’s comment. That was when Tina’s expression changed.
“I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” she said softly. Her words confirmed what I feared.
She explained that Mark had spoken of ending things. That they thought the truth would come out eventually. When I asked if she was okay with what had happened, she simply said, “I’m okay being the one he chooses.”
That was the moment I chose something too—my peace.
I went home with clarity. No more doubts. No more pretending. The days that followed were a blur of decisions: meetings with a lawyer, organizing custody, ensuring Sophie would be safe, stable, and loved.
Mark moved out. Tina became a more visible part of his life. But the version of him I see now—tired, distant at drop-offs—feels like a stranger.
Sophie, meanwhile, continues to be my anchor. One night, while looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars we placed above her bed, she asked why her father no longer lived with us.
“Because sometimes people make choices that aren’t fair,” I said. “And they forget to tell the truth.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Lying is bad.”
“It is,” I agreed.
Then she smiled and whispered, “I’m glad we don’t have red worms.”
And for the first time in a long while, I laughed—not from sadness, not from pain, but from the quiet strength of moving forward.