The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow echoed louder than any slam ever could.
The first week was survival. Eight kids, eight different reactions—confusion, anger, silence, tears I had to absorb while holding myself together. I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. There were lunches to pack, school runs to make, bills to figure out. Every second of every day was accounted for, leaving no space to process what had happened.
By the second week, reality settled in. He wasn’t coming back. No calls. No check-ins. Just the occasional cold transfer of money, like that somehow replaced presence.
By the third week, something inside me shifted. Not healing—not yet—but clarity. I stopped checking my phone. Stopped expecting his name to light up the screen. I started rebuilding, piece by piece, even if it felt impossible.
By the fourth week, I almost believed we were going to be okay.
