Three years after my husband Stan left me and our two kids for a glamorous mistress, I unexpectedly saw them again. They looked worn down and bitter—far from the dazzling couple that had shattered my life. But it wasn’t their decline that satisfied me. It was how much strength I had found without them.
Stan had brought her home one day, introducing her and asking for a divorce right in front of me. He told me to sleep on the couch because she was staying over. I packed our things and took Lily and Max to my mother’s house that night, holding myself together for their sake. That was the night everything changed.
The divorce was quick, messy, and left me rebuilding from scratch. Stan disappeared—no calls, no child support—and I had to become both mom and dad. It was hard watching my kids grieve the father who chose to forget them. But little by little, we created a warm, joyful life of our own.
When I ran into Stan and Miranda again, he begged to talk, claiming he missed the kids and regretted it all. She walked out on him right there, tired of the mess they’d made together. I didn’t let him back in—I didn’t need to. Seeing him broken wasn’t the win. Thriving without him was.