Damon and I met in our early twenties, two bruised souls pretending to be adults but clinging to hope. He made me laugh so hard I forgot my name. Love with him wasn’t gentle; it was cinematic, intense, and—for a while—enough to build a life.

He proposed under the big oak on campus, a cheap ring box in his shaking hands. “You’re it for me,” he said. I believed him. At twenty‑five I was drowning in debt, he was charming my storms quiet, and I thought love would outrun logic.

Then I gave birth to Mark. Damon began pulling away like the tide—missed birthdays, vanished weekends, vague “work stuff.” I stopped expecting. I held everything: bills, drop‑offs, scraped knees, even his mother, who never called our son by name.

One afternoon a burst pipe at work sent me home early. Mark and I opened the front door. A half‑naked stranger lay in my sheets. Damon sat beside her, annoyed, not panicked. “Oh. You’re early,” he said.

I didn’t scream. I took my son to my mother’s, then went back and packed. The next morning a text arrived: “Taking the dog. You got the kid.” Another from his mother: “At least the dog’s trained.”

The fog cleared. I filed for divorce and sole custody.

In court Damon arrived late and smug, his lawyer painting me unfit. Mark raised his hand. “Dad texted me yesterday,” he told the judge. “He said if I don’t say I want to live with him and Grandma, Mom will lose the house.” Damon stammered. Then his sister Simone stood and told the truth.

The gavel came down: custody to me, the house mine. That night Mark and I finally made cookies—gooey, messy, perfect. Damon had tried to break me, but I was never broken to begin with.