She was turning thirteen. Another birthday without me there. Again. So I did the only thing I could do—I sent a box. Another gift, one more piece of me she might never get to see. I told myself I was doing my best, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t enough. Until the day a letter showed up on my porch. On the front, in shaky, uneven handwriting, were the words that nearly broke me: “Why did you forget me, Mom?” I had spent hours wrapping her birthday gift. A

I thought leaving after my husband’s affair would be the hardest thing I’d ever do. I thought the worst was already behind me. But then I walked back into that house and saw him—standing in the middle of our bedroom, scissors in hand, cutting my dresses into pieces. He didn’t even look ashamed. He looked smug. “I don’t want you looking pretty for other men,” he said, slicing through silk like it was wrapping paper. “If you’re leaving, you’re not taking this with you.” That was the exact moment I

I wasn’t supposed to be at this wedding. That much was clear from the sideways glances, the fake smiles, and the whispers that followed me as I walked across the golden, glittering hall. The place was breathtaking, I’ll admit that. Ivory flowers hung like clouds from the ceiling, tall gold candelabras flickered with soft flames, and every guest wore gowns or tuxedos that probably cost more than my rent. On the surface, it looked like a perfect fairytale. But no amount of sparkle could cover up the rot underneath. Because