Two years after the divorce, my daughter, Rowan, came to see me. At twenty-four, she was confident, successful, and fiercely independent. She had always chased her goals with a determination that reminded me of my younger self — the version of me that existed before expectations overshadowed everything else.
She sat down in my living room, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and said she had fallen deeply in love.
Then she said his name.
Arthur.
I asked her to repeat it, hoping I had misheard. She didn’t hesitate. She explained that they had connected, that conversations had turned into something more, and that she believed he understood her in a way few people ever had.
Before I could speak, she gave me an ultimatum that cut straight to my heart: accept her relationship, or risk losing her entirely.
I chose my daughter. I chose connection over conflict. And I stayed silent.
