I was buried in laundry when the text came:
“I can’t do this anymore. You’re too tired, too boring. I need more.”
Peter didn’t just leave me—he left our four kids without a goodbye.
The next morning, he was posting selfies with his coworker Elise, all smiles and rooftop cocktails. My kids were heartbroken, especially Lucy, who asked if he left because she was too loud at breakfast.
I went into survival mode—school drop-offs, meals, bedtime stories, bills, tears in the shower. There was no time to grieve. I even sold the unused piano and turned our guest room into a home office, went back to teaching, and slowly built a new life.
One morning, Peter showed up with cheap flowers and a tired smile. He wanted a second chance.
I let him in. Made tea. Listened.
Then I handed him a folder—child support breakdowns, legal paperwork, a record of everything he’d ignored for a year. His face fell.
“I want to come home,” he said.
I smiled. “This isn’t your home anymore.”
He said I’d changed.
I hadn’t. I just stopped burning myself out to keep others warm.
The next day, I tossed his bouquet in the compost—right next to the coffee grounds and eggshells. Just like him, they’d once served a purpose. Now, they were just waste.
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