I never thought a courtroom would be the place I found clarity. But it was—and it came from the smallest voice in the room: my seven-year-old son.
Damon and I met young. We believed love alone could carry us through anything. He made me laugh. He made promises under the oak tree where we met in college. We had nothing but hope—and later, our beautiful son, Mark.
But as our family grew, our connection faded. Late nights turned into long absences. Excuses became routine. I stayed—for Mark. I stayed, hoping Damon would return to us.
Then one ordinary day, everything changed.
A broken pipe at work sent me home early. I picked up Mark and surprised him with the idea of baking cookies. What we found instead was silence—and someone else in our home.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I left.
That same night, while Mark slept at my mother’s house, I returned and quietly packed. The next morning, I filed for divorce and full custody.
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