Fourteen years of marriage ended when my husband, Stan, chose his mistress over his family. One evening, their arrival disrupted my routine. The woman coldly assessed me, saying, “Well, darling, you were right, she really let herself go. Nice bone structure, though.” My heart broke as Stan declared he wanted a divorce and demanded I leave our home.
I moved into a tiny apartment with my children, juggling two jobs to provide for them. Stan initially sent money but eventually disappeared from our lives entirely, ignoring his own children. Despite the hardship, I discovered resilience I never knew I had, determined to give my kids a stable life.
Three years later, I ran into Stan and his wife at a coffee shop. They looked worn and far from their former selves. Stan approached me, pleading to reconnect with the children he had abandoned. I told him the decision wasn’t mine but promised to inform my kids of his wish.
As his wife berated him outside, I walked away, feeling not vengeful but fulfilled. My life, once shattered, had become brighter than the one Stan had left behind.
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