I still remember the day my ex-wife, her eyes red-rimmed but her voice firm, sat me down at our kitchen table and asked for a divorce. We had married young, and a year later, our daughter was born—a perfect child with large brown eyes and a laugh that could banish the gloomiest day. When I held her in the hospital, I made a silent, sacred vow to always protect her. The divorce request felt like a physical blow, but the real shock came when she demanded full custody.
“No. Absolutely not,” I countered, my hands clinching into fists.
She pleaded, “She’s just a baby. Her mother is her greatest need. I promise you can see her whenever you want. I would never deny you access to her.”
I hated conflict, especially the kind that could scar a child. I didn’t want our daughter to grow up in a hostile war zone. So, I trusted her. I trusted the woman I had married, even as I secretly harbored doubts about her fidelity, having noticed her growing distance, late nights, and private texts long before the conversation about divorce. I reluctantly concurred with the full custody arrangement. A month after the papers were signed, she remarried. Not a shock, just a confirmation of my fears.
I tried to focus on the silver lining. Perhaps she was happy, and perhaps this new husband would treat our daughter well.
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