My husband, Greg, and I had built the kind of life that didn’t need explaining. We had one child. And I believed we had trust between us until that fateful day during the holidays when Greg’s ex resurfaced in our lives, changing everything.
We had one child.
Greg and I had been together for 12 years. In that time, we had grown into a rhythm so familiar it was almost sacred. We had grocery lists stuck to the fridge, half-finished puzzles on the dining table, and inside jokes no one else would understand.
Coffee travel mugs balanced between our seats amid school runs, fun birthday celebrations at the same Italian place we’d gone to for a decade, and the occasional spontaneous dinner date when we managed to escape the workweek chaos.
The biggest Sunday dilemma was choosing between pancakes and waffles.
Greg and I
had been together
for 12 years.
We weren’t flashy or complicated. But we were steady, and honestly, I thought that was beautiful.
Our daughter, Lila, is 11. She has her father’s soft heart and my confidence. Lila still believes in Santa. Or maybe she just believes in the magic of believing. But every year, she writes a thank-you note and leaves it with the cookies.
This year’s note said, “Thank you for trying so hard.” That one brought a tear to my eye.
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