A month later, Hicks came home early. I was sitting on the floor with Nux, “Sesame Street” murmuring in the background. My husband stood in the doorway with a look I couldn’t read.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said quietly.
“This. You. Everything,” he said. “I’m just not attracted to you anymore. You’ve changed. You let yourself go.”
At first, I thought it was a joke. But he was already grabbing a suitcase from the hallway cupboard. He said he needed to “find himself.” He said that he’d “still be there for Nux,” but he couldn’t stay in a life that felt like an anchor around his neck.
And just like that, the man I had sacrificed my body for — twice — walked out of our home.
I cried for weeks. I could barely look in the mirror. My stretch marks felt like evidence of failure. My body felt foreign. And the worst part? I didn’t just feel abandoned — I felt used.
But I still had Nux. And that was enough to make me get up every morning.
Eventually, after the alimony just wasn’t enough to make ends meet, I took a job at a local women’s health clinic. The hours were flexible, and the work gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time — purpose. I wasn’t just someone’s mother or someone’s ex-wife.
I was helping women feel seen and heard. And in a strange, unexpected way, it helped me start healing, too.
I started therapy, almost reluctantly. I journaled at night after Nux went to sleep, pouring every ache and unanswered question on paper. Grief didn’t leave in waves — it leaked out slowly. In the way I folded laundry. In the way I avoided mirrors. Continue reading…
