The glass looked like it was crying for her.

Rain slid down the kitchen window in long, trembling lines, blurring the neat row of townhouses across the street and the faint glow of a Starbucks sign on the corner. Gray Seattle sky pressed low over everything like a lid, heavy and relentless, as if the whole city were sinking with her.

Hannah Mercer wrapped her hands around a bowl of oatmeal she hadn’t really eaten and tried to remember the last time she’d cried. Days ago, maybe. Not because the pain had faded, but because it felt like she had simply run out of tears.

Behind her, his voice sliced through the quiet.

“You’re eating again.”

Landon’s tone carried that familiar mix of disappointment and disdain, the one she’d grown used to over the last year. Hannah’s fingers tightened around the bowl. The oatmeal was plain—no sugar, no cream, just hot, bland mush—but suddenly it felt like a crime.

“It’s breakfast,” she answered softly.

“Breakfast?” He stepped into the room, the clean scent of his cologne cutting through the smell of coffee. His eyes slid up and down her body, cool and clinical, like he was appraising damaged merchandise.

“Do you ever look in the mirror?” he asked. “You’ve let yourself go. I can’t pretend to be attracted to you anymore.”

The words landed exactly where he aimed them. They always did.

There was a time she would’ve argued back, would’ve snapped something sharp and clever and refused to let him bruise her like that. But the years had worn her down—years of motherhood, work, packing lunches, paying bills, and managing the thousand invisible tasks that kept their small Seattle life running. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped fighting and started enduring.

She set the spoon down.

Landon’s phone buzzed on the counter. Out of habit, her gaze flicked to the screen.

A preview lit up in bright, undeniable letters.

Sierra: Dinner at my place tonight. I miss you. 💛

Her pulse stuttered.

Her hand moved before her mind did. He’d never changed his passcode. He probably thought he didn’t need to. Hannah scooped up the phone and unlocked it.

The messages spilled out like a confession.

Months of late-night conversations. Wine glasses clinking in selfies. Photos of a woman Hannah had seen around his office—Sierra Brooks, mid-twenties, bright lipstick, glossy hair, the kind of shine that came from never waking up three times a night with a sick kid.

You looked so handsome today.

Can’t wait to see you tonight.

I wish you were here instead of with her.

Hannah scrolled, her eyes burning, breath turning shallow. There were emojis, half-dressed mirror shots, little hearts. Plans. Hotel names. A quick weekend in Portland. A joke about “boring married people at work.”

Her thumb shook. She set the phone back exactly where it had been.

No scream. No thrown dishes. Just a quiet, hollow collapse inside her, as if some central support beam had finally cracked.

Outside, the rain kept falling. A bus rolled down the street toward downtown, tires hissing on the wet pavement. Somewhere out there, people were grabbing their lattes, hustling into Amazon offices, starting their Tuesday like it was any other day.

In this kitchen, something was ending.

Slowly, Hannah turned again to the window. The reflection that stared back at her was soft around the edges, eyes ringed with the faint bruises of sleepless nights. A woman who had given everything she had to a life somebody else clearly no longer wanted.

She realized, with a cold little click of clarity, that their marriage hadn’t shattered just now. It had probably been dying for a long time. This was just the moment she’d finally seen the corpse.

That evening, the apartment felt heavier than it ever had, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Hannah sat on the edge of the bed, hands still trembling from what she’d seen. The digital clock glowed 11:54 p.m. Evan was asleep down the hall, his small body sprawled sideways across a Star Wars comforter, blissfully unaware.

She waited for the sound of the front door unlocking.

The familiar click that used to mean he was home safe.

Tonight, it sounded like a countdown.

The lock turned. The door opened and closed. The scent of unfamiliar perfume reached her before he did—something sweet and floral that didn’t belong in their home.

The hallway light flicked on. Landon appeared in the doorway, hair mussed, shirt untucked, eyes widening when he saw her sitting up.

“You’re awake,” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied. Her voice sounded thin but steady. That surprised her.

He hesitated for half a heartbeat, then exhaled sharply, as if she were an inconvenience he’d forgotten to schedule.

“Listen, Hannah. We need to talk.”

Four words that made her stomach drop.

He sat on the far edge of the bed, leaving a canyon between them.

“I’m leaving,” he said bluntly.

Her fingers curled into the duvet. “Leaving… for the night?” she asked, though she already knew.

“I can’t keep living like this,” he went on, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. “Sierra is pregnant. I want to be with her.”

The room tilted.

Pregnant.

The word floated between them, surreal and obscene. A child. With another woman. A child he’d never bothered to want with her, even when she’d quietly cried in the bathroom after yet another negative test.

“You’re leaving your family,” she said. She barely recognized her own voice. “For her.”

“People change,” he said with a shrug. “Feelings change. Honestly? You stopped being the woman I married. You let yourself go. You don’t even try anymore.”

There it was again. That same cruel refrain, delivered like a diagnosis. He’d weaponized her body until she wanted to disappear from herself.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

The words didn’t form. They evaporated somewhere between her chest and her lips.

“I’ll pack my things this week,” Landon added, already standing. “I’ll keep paying for Evan, of course. I’m not heartless.”

He said it like he was offering her a favor, like her son’s grocery money was charity, not obligation.

He left the room, leaving her alone with the echo of the life they’d built.

Hannah drew her knees to her chest and stayed that way until the black of night softened into the pale gray of Seattle dawn. She didn’t scream after him. She didn’t beg him to stay. She just broke quietly in the dark, in a way that felt total and irreversible.

The next three days passed in a blur.

She moved through the apartment like a ghost, floating from bedroom to kitchen to bathroom and back again. She packed Evan’s lunch for school—ham sandwich, apple slices, granola bar—and walked him to the bus stop on the corner like always. She nodded at the same neighbors with their dogs, the same parents clutching travel mugs, their lives intact.

She smiled when she needed to for Evan’s sake, then lost the expression as soon as he climbed onto the bus.

Back inside, the silence roared.

She tried to remember if she’d eaten. Coffee, maybe. Toast. She wasn’t sure. She knew she hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time.

On the fourth morning, the fridge offered her nothing but an expired carton of milk and a half-eaten yogurt cup. She couldn’t hide from errands any longer.

She pulled on an oversized hoodie, twisted her hair into a clip without looking in the mirror, grabbed her keys, and stepped out into the damp Seattle air.

The grocery store sat a few blocks away, next to a branch bank and a nail salon with pink neon lights. The automatic doors opened with a whoosh, blowing cool, artificial air over her gray thoughts.

“Hannah?”

The voice stopped her mid-step.

She turned and saw Judith Price, her mother-in-law, standing near the shopping carts, a designer purse hanging from her arm and disapproval practically etched into her forehead.

“Judith,” Hannah said politely. “Hello.”

Judith’s gaze swept over her—a slow, assessing scan from messy hair to worn-out sneakers. Her lips pursed.

“You look unwell,” Judith said.

“Just tired,” Hannah replied, forcing a small, neutral smile. “It’s been… a lot lately.”

“I know all about it,” Judith said, stepping closer. “Landon told me everything.”

Of course he did, Hannah thought. She tightened her grip on the cart handle.

“I’m taking Evan for the summer,” Judith announced. “He shouldn’t be around you in your condition.”

“My condition?” Hannah repeated, the words scraping her throat.

“You’ve let yourself go,” Judith said, matter-of-fact. “You’re clearly depressed. The boy doesn’t need to see this. He needs stability. I’ll arrange it.”

Hannah blinked. “Absolutely not,” she said, but it came out softer than she wanted.

Judith sighed dramatically, as if Hannah were a child refusing to eat vegetables.

“You are the reason this marriage failed,” she pressed on. “You stopped trying. Sierra is young, responsible, put together. She’ll give Landon the life he deserves. And that baby—”

“Please don’t,” Hannah cut in, feeling suddenly nauseous.

Judith ignored her. “Fix yourself, Hannah,” she said. “That is your only option now.”

She turned her cart and walked away, leaving Hannah standing in the entrance with buzzing fluorescent lights above and a supermarket soundtrack droning in the background.

Hannah’s hands shook so badly she almost dropped her keys.

She made it back home, though she wouldn’t remember the walk later. She shut the door behind her, leaned her back against it, and slid down to the floor as the sobs finally tore free.

She cried until her throat hurt, until her hoodie was soaked, until her whole body felt wrung out.

When the tears slowed, the old habit crept in.

Food. Something sweet to quiet the ache.

She went to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and stared at the box of supermarket pastries she’d bought “for Evan” and never touched. Her fingers tore it open. She ate one. Then another. Then another, barely tasting them, just chasing the tiny rush of comfort that dissolved almost instantly into shame.

She stopped halfway through the box.

The guilt in her stomach felt heavier than the sugar.

Breathing hard, she walked down the hall and into the bathroom.

The mirror over the sink was unforgiving in the weak light. The woman who stared back at her didn’t look like the girl who’d moved to Washington state at twenty-four with big plans and a head full of design ideas.

Her eyes were swollen and rimmed in red. Her skin looked pale and tired. Her hair frizzed out of its clip in wild, unflattering waves. At thirty-eight, she looked ten years older. She looked like someone who’d slowly disappeared in service of everyone else’s needs.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

No answer came. Just the quiet drip of the faucet and the far-off sound of a bus on I-5.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at the woman in the mirror. But at some point, something inside shifted—small, almost imperceptible, like the tiniest click of a lock.

It wasn’t a movie moment. No triumphant music swelled. No lightning bolt of confidence struck.

She just… straightened her shoulders a fraction of an inch.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, turned away from the mirror, and walked to the kitchen with steps that felt a little more deliberate.

She pulled an old lined notebook from the junk drawer, the same one she’d once used for grocery lists and PTA notes. She flipped to a blank page and stared at it for a long moment, chewing the inside of her cheek.

Then she wrote, very slowly, as if carving it into stone:

What to do next

1. File for divorce.
2. Protect Evan.
3. Call a lawyer.
4. Go back to work.
5. Find myself again.

The last line made her throat tighten. It felt too big, too vague, too impossible. But seeing it on paper made it real. Made it something she could’t keep ignoring.

She underlined it twice.

The next morning, with hands that still trembled slightly, Hannah Googled “family attorney Seattle” and found a name with five stars and kind reviews.

Mark Weston.

She dialed his office and somehow got the words out.

“My name is Hannah Mercer,” she said. “My husband left. I need to know what to do next.”

Mark’s voice on the other end was steady and warm, with just enough firmness to feel like a life raft.

“Come in tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll go through everything together. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

After the call, she logged into her bank account.

Her breath caught.

The balance was lower than it should’ve been. Much lower.

A cold, shaky feeling crept up her spine as she clicked through the transactions. Landon had withdrawn a large chunk from the joint savings the week before he announced he was leaving. Enough to hurt, not enough that she’d noticed immediately amid the chaos.

Of course he had.

Hannah sat very still for a second.

Then she opened a new tab, created a separate account in her name only, and transferred every remaining dollar from what was legally hers—her paychecks, her freelance tax refunds, the small nest egg she’d squirreled away from working at the mid-sized real estate firm near downtown.

This time, she told herself, she wouldn’t leave herself exposed.

That afternoon, she turned on music—just low, some old acoustic playlist she used to paint to before life got busy—and started cleaning.

Not the frantic, angry cleaning of someone trying to erase a person from a space.

Something calmer. More intentional.

She took Landon’s shirts off the closet rod and folded them into a box. She stacked his unopened mail in a neat pile and wrote his new address on a yellow sticky note. She gathered his shaving kit, his old University of Washington hoodie, the Chargers cap he loved, his cables and chargers.

Every item she touched felt like closing a drawer on a chapter.

By the time she’d finished, the apartment felt strangely expanded, like someone had opened a window.

On impulse, she opened her laptop again and typed “fitness studio near me.” A small place popped up a few blocks away—a women-only studio with bright photos and a note about community and judgment-free zones.

The idea of walking into a room full of toned, confident women in colorful leggings made her want to crawl out of her skin. But something in her—the same thin thread of fight that had made her write that list—nudged her forward.

She booked a free trial class for the next morning.

That night, after Evan was asleep, she clicked on a link she’d seen in a divorce forum.

Online support group – Pacific Time, women only. Cameras optional.

She joined with her video off, heart pounding at the thought of strangers seeing her swollen eyes. One by one, faces popped up on screen: a woman in her fifties with silver hair pulled into a bun; a young mom holding a baby; a woman with a Boston Red Sox cap speaking from what looked like a tiny studio apartment.

“Welcome, Hannah,” the moderator said. “Share when you’re ready. No pressure.”

She listened first. Stories of betrayal, of quiet endings, of rediscovering self-worth after being told it had expired. When it was her turn, her voice trembled at the start… but once the first words came, the rest followed.

She talked about the phone, the perfume, the cruel comments about her body. She talked about Judith in the grocery store, about the pastries and the shame, about staring at herself in the mirror and not recognizing the woman there.

By the time she stopped, she realized her whole story had spilled out.

“You’re not alone,” one of the women said softly. “We’ve all been there in some way. You’re stronger than you think.”

Those words settled into her chest like a small, warm stone. Not quite hope. Not yet.

But something like it.

The next morning, she pulled on leggings and an old T-shirt and walked to the studio with a knot in her stomach.

The lobby smelled like orange slices and laundry detergent. A group of women chatted near the front desk, all bright colors and ponytails. Hannah hovered at the doorway, suddenly sure she didn’t belong.

“Hey!” A woman with dark curls and kind eyes stepped toward her. “You must be Hannah. First time?”

Hannah nodded. “Is it that obvious?” she tried to joke.

“Only because you have that ‘I want to turn around and go home’ look,” the woman said with a grin. “I’m Laya. Don’t worry. Just move at your own pace. Showing up is the hardest part.”

The class was brutal.

Ten minutes in, Hannah’s lungs burned and her legs shook. She moved slower than everybody else. She messed up the steps, lost the rhythm, had to pause for water twice.

But she didn’t leave.

When it finally ended, she leaned against the wall, sweat cooling on her skin, heart pounding in her ears. Laya appeared beside her.

“You did great,” she said. “Come back. It gets better. I promise.”

The sincerity in her voice sank deeper than Hannah expected. She heard herself answer, without overthinking it:

“I will.”

After a long shower at home, she traded leggings for black slacks and a blouse, put on a little concealer for the first time in forever, and drove toward downtown.

Her job wasn’t glamorous—junior accountant at a real estate firm that managed commercial properties around Seattle and Bellevue—but it was steady. It was hers.

Her supervisor, Linda, called her into her office with a gentle knock on the glass.

“Are you sure you’re ready to be back full-time?” Linda asked. “You could’ve taken more leave.”

“I need to work,” Hannah said. Her voice surprised her again with how firm it sounded. “I think it’s good for me.”

Linda studied her for a moment, then opened a folder.

“I have something that might interest you,” she said, sliding a file across the desk. “One of our clients wants to redesign their downtown office. And I remember you mentioned you studied interior design before you switched tracks.”

Hannah blinked. “That was… a long time ago,” she said.

“Talent doesn’t expire,” Linda replied. “If you’re interested, you could take the lead. It would be a separate contract, on top of your accounting salary.”

Her heart did a strange little jump.

“I can try,” she said at last.

“I think you can do more than try,” Linda said. “Take the weekend. Think about ideas. Bring me a proposal next week.”

That night, after Evan fell asleep, Hannah pulled a dusty plastic tub out of the hall closet.

Inside, beneath old photo albums and a couple of framed certificates, she found it—her portfolio. The one she’d made back when she dreamed of launching her own design studio, before rent and daycare and her ex-husband’s ever-present “maybe later” had pushed it aside.

She spread the sketches across the dining table: clean lines, natural light, modern Pacific Northwest palettes with walnut and cool grays, pops of color. Her younger self peered back at her from every page—brighter, lighter, but somehow not so different from who she was now.

She opened her laptop and started researching office design trends, color psychology, ergonomic layouts. Hours disappeared. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t count them.

When she finally glanced at the clock, it was just past midnight.

She realized, with a little start, that she hadn’t thought about Landon in three whole hours.

For a woman who had been shattered on her bathroom floor days ago, that small truth felt monumental.

By the end of the week, a new rhythm had settled in.

Mornings: get Evan ready, drop him at school, hit the studio twice a week, sweat and stagger and slowly grow stronger. Days: numbers and spreadsheets at the firm, then a few stolen moments to jot down design ideas between emails. Evenings: dinner with Evan, homework, a short walk in the cool air when the rain eased up, then sketches and layouts after he went to bed.

Her muscles ached. Her body was still softer than the magazines on the checkout stands. But when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror now, she saw something new in her posture. A quiet, emerging resolve.

On Friday afternoon, she came home from work with grocery bags on each arm, nudged the apartment door open with her hip—and froze.

Landon stood in the entryway, a duffel bag and a cardboard box at his feet.

He looked… deflated. There were shadows under his eyes. His clothes hung a little loose on his frame, like stress had been chewing at him.

“I came for the rest of my things,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

“They’re in the hall closet,” Hannah said, moving past him toward the kitchen. “I packed everything up.”

He paused, looking at her as if trying to read a language he no longer spoke.

“You cut your hair,” he said, as if that were the most important detail.

It was true. On impulse the day before, she’d walked into a little Capitol Hill salon during her lunch break and had the stylist cut off six inches. The new style framed her face, made her look a little sharper, a little more… her.

“Yes,” she said. “I did.”

He disappeared down the hall. She put the milk in the fridge, the apples in the fruit bowl, the chicken in the freezer, each small domestic act grounding her deeper into a life that no longer included him.

When he came back, arms full of his things, she stepped toward him before he could open his mouth.

“Landon,” she said. “About the divorce. I met with an attorney. We’re filing next week.”

His jaw clenched. “Hannah, I thought we talked about not making this difficult.”

“It’s already difficult,” she said calmly. “We’ll formalize child support. The law says twenty-five percent of your income. We’ll set a visitation schedule for Evan. Every other weekend, holidays split.”

He shook his head. “I can’t afford twenty-five percent. Sierra’s about to have the baby. Do you have any idea what daycare costs in this city? Formula? Hospital bills?”

“Your responsibilities don’t vanish because you started over,” Hannah replied. “Evan is your son. He doesn’t get demoted because there’s a newer model.”

He flinched at that.

“I thought you’d be more understanding,” he muttered.

“Understanding?” She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You left your family for a younger woman. You let your mother blame me in the middle of a grocery store. You haven’t called Evan once since the night you walked out. And you expect me to soften the consequences for you?”

He looked away. For the first time, she saw something like uncertainty flicker across his features.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I expected you to fall apart. You always depended on me.”

“And now,” Hannah said, “I don’t.”

The words settled between them with a finality she hadn’t anticipated.

He looked at her again, searching, maybe hoping to find the broken version of her he’d left behind.

She wasn’t there anymore.

“Take your things,” she said, stepping aside. “My lawyer will handle the rest.”

He lingered for a second longer, as if he wanted to say something else. Then he picked up the duffel, the box, and walked out.

The silence he left behind felt different this time.

Not like abandonment.

Like space.

Two weeks later, Hannah stood in front of the King County Family Courthouse, the American flag flapping lazily in the breeze above the steps and a steady stream of people moving in and out—parents, lawyers, kids holding onto stuffed animals for comfort.

She clutched a folder to her chest. Inside were neatly organized documents: letters from Evan’s teacher talking about his progress; a note from her boss confirming her employment; character statements from two neighbors who’d seen her walking her son to the bus stop through rain and sun.

Each page was a quiet argument in her favor.

Mark met her at the entrance, navy suit, calm eyes.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said. “Stick to facts. Breathe. You’ve done everything right.”

Inside, fluorescent lights hummed. The courtroom smelled faintly of paper and coffee. Landon sat on the opposite side with his attorney, eyes fixed straight ahead. He looked older than his thirty-nine years, as if his new life had hit him like a storm he wasn’t prepared for.

The hearing began.

Landon’s lawyer went first.

“Your Honor,” he said, adjusting his tie, “my client has concerns regarding the plaintiff’s emotional stability. She recently took medical leave from work due to exhaustion. At this time, he believes joint custody would be more appropriate, to ensure their son has consistent access to both parents and a stable environment.”

Hannah felt that small sting again—how quickly burnout became ammunition. Mark rose, completely unruffled.

“Your Honor,” he said, “the leave was temporary and fully resolved. Ms. Mercer has since returned to full-time employment, taken on additional responsibilities, and maintained consistent care for her son. We have documentation from her employer, her son’s school, and her medical provider attesting to her reliability. Ms. Mercer has been her son’s primary caregiver since birth. She has a stable home, steady income, and a strong support network.”

He handed a thick packet to the judge.

The judge, a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense expression, skimmed the letters, nodding slightly at certain lines.

Then she looked up.

“Ms. Mercer,” she said. “Do you wish to speak?”

Hannah stood. Her legs wobbled, but her voice, when it came, surprised her again.

“Yes, Your Honor,” she said. “I do.”

She glanced at Evan’s name on the documents and let it anchor her.

“I have cared for my son every day of his life,” she said. “I work. I provide. I take him to school and doctor’s appointments. I sit with him during nightmares. I am rebuilding myself, yes, but I have always been present. His father has not visited or called in over a month. I am not perfect. But I am steady. And Evan deserves steadiness.”

The courtroom was very quiet when she finished.

Landon looked at her then, really looked. The flicker in his eyes wasn’t love. Maybe not even regret.

But there was a glimmer of something like recognition. As if he was finally seeing her as a person, not an extension of his life.

The judge asked a few more clarifying questions, then called a recess.

In the hallway, Hannah leaned against the cool wall, heart racing. Her phone buzzed.

A text from Jamal, the old college friend she’d reconnected with through the support group’s online forum: You’ve got this. Proud of you.

Another from one of the women in her group: We’re all here with you in spirit. No matter what happens, you showed up for yourself.

She smiled, just a tiny curve of her lips. Then she put the phone away.

When they were called back in, she took her seat, hands folded.

The judge cleared her throat.

“After reviewing the documents and listening to both parties,” she said, “this court awards primary physical custody to the mother, Ms. Mercer. The father, Mr. Price, is granted visitation every other weekend and alternating holidays. Child support will be set at twenty-five percent of Mr. Price’s income, as per Washington State guidelines. The condominium is recognized as Ms. Mercer’s premarital property and will not be divided.”

Hannah’s knees almost buckled in relief.

It was over.

Not their entire history, not the hurt—but the part of it where she had to convince the system that she was worthy of the life she’d been carrying on her back for years.

Outside, the gray Seattle sky had cracked open just enough to let a shard of sunlight through. It warmed her face as she stepped down the courthouse stairs.

That evening, she unlocked her apartment door with hands that no longer shook.

“Mom!” Evan barreled into her, nearly knocking the folder from her grasp. “Are we okay?”

“Yes,” she said, dropping to his level and wrapping him up in a hug. “We are, sweetheart. We really are.”

After he fell asleep, little snores drifting from his room, Hannah stepped out onto the small balcony. The city lights shimmered against the wet streets. Somewhere in the distance, the roar of I-5 softened to a dull hum.

Her phone buzzed. An email notification flashed across the screen.

From: Connor Hale
Subject: Design Bureau Proposal

Hannah,

Your work on the office redesign has been exceptional. I’m launching a boutique design bureau here in Seattle and would like you to lead the creative team. Let’s discuss details soon.

Best,
Connor

She read it twice.

Lead the creative team.

A door she’d quietly locked on herself years ago was suddenly opening. Not because someone saved her. Because she’d started walking toward it again.

The next morning, Landon came by one last time, accompanied by the awkward hush of someone who knew the story had moved on without him.

On the kitchen table, he found a single envelope with his name written in Hannah’s neat hand.

He opened it.

Landon,

When you left, I thought my life was over.

But pain became the doorway back to myself.

I didn’t rise to prove anything to you. I rose because I deserved better than the version of myself I had become.

I hope you find what you’re looking for. Truly.

But I’m no longer your past to revisit.

Take care,

Hannah

He folded the letter slowly, fingers tight at the edges.

When he looked up, she was standing in the hallway. No anger on her face. No plea. Just calm.

“You look different,” he said quietly.

“I am,” she replied. “And I’m not going back.”

He nodded once, defeated in a way that didn’t touch her anymore. Then he picked up the last box of his things and walked out.

She closed the door behind him with a soft click and let out a long breath—not of grief, but of release.

Her phone pinged again. Jamal checking in: Coffee this week to celebrate your new job offer?

Another message from Connor: Can you meet Tuesday?

Evan’s voice carried from the living room. “Mom, look! My tower’s taller than me!”

“I’m coming!” she called.

She picked up the old notebook from the counter, flipped to the last page where her shaky handwriting had once spelled out survival.

Under “Find myself again,” she wrote a new line in steady ink:

Keep choosing yourself.

Because that, she realized, had been the real turning point. Not the day he left. Not the day in court. The moment she’d decided she was worth her own effort.

Healing hadn’t arrived all at once like a sunrise. It had come in small, stubborn choices—show up to class, call the lawyer, answer the support group invite, open the old portfolio, say “no” when it mattered, say “yes” when it scared her.

She walked back to the living room.

Evan stood beside a tower of colorful blocks that wobbled dangerously.

“Careful,” she said, laughing. “It’s amazing. Just like you.”

He grinned. “Just like you,” he answered.

She didn’t correct him.

For the first time in a very long time, Hannah believed that maybe, just maybe, he was right.