When my husband, Caleb, walked out six years ago, I didn’t just lose a partner—I lost the future we’d built together, the life we dreamed of in whispers after the kids fell asleep. He said he needed “time to find himself,” but what he really found was another woman. He never looked back.
That left me—Lila, 48, mother of two—in a house too big for one and too full of grief. Jude was eight, silent and lost in video games, while Ivy was a red-cheeked baby, still drinking milk from her crib. I held us together with faith and grit, working night shifts and answering morning calls, never letting myself break because no one else could hold us up.
Now Jude is 14—tall, with earbuds and quiet moods. Ivy is six, bright and tender, the last pure thing in my life. I’ve made peace with the chaos, working from home on a support hotline and stretching every paycheck to keep us afloat.
