When I married Tom twelve years ago, I thought we were forever. We met in college — young, idealistic, and certain that love would conquer everything. For a while, it did. We built a home, had our daughter Lily, and shared a thousand small dreams. But somewhere along the way, the laughter faded. Tom became distant, and I became the one holding everything together — our house, our child, our marriage.
When he finally asked for a divorce, I wasn’t surprised. Heartbroken, yes, but not shocked. The hardest part wasn’t losing him — it was watching how easily he moved on, building a shiny new life that didn’t seem to include Lily.
Within a year, Tom remarried a woman named Krista. She had two daughters from her previous marriage, sweet girls around Lily’s age. I wanted to believe they’d all blend into one happy family — that Tom would still make space for his daughter. But as time passed, it became painfully clear he wasn’t.
Family trips, beach days, Disneyland — his social media was full of smiling pictures with Krista and her girls. Lily’s visits, meanwhile, were constantly rescheduled. “Something came up,” he’d text. “We’ll make it up next weekend.” But “next weekend” rarely came.
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