I remember that day with painful clarity—my ex-wife, eyes rimmed with red but her voice steady, sat me down at the kitchen table and asked for a divorce.
We had married young. A year later, our daughter was born—a bright, joyful child with wide brown eyes and a laugh that could lift any shadow. Holding her in the hospital, I silently vowed I would always protect her.
“No. Absolutely not,” I said, fists clenched.
“She’s just a baby,” she pleaded. “She needs her mother. You can see her whenever you want. I would never keep her from you.”
I hated conflict, especially when it could scar a child. I wanted peace. So I trusted her—despite the late-night messages, the secrecy, and the emotional distance that had been growing for years. I agreed to her custody terms.
A month after signing the papers, she remarried. Not a shock—but a confirmation.
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