Proof, Passwords, and Peace

Brandon didn’t flinch. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I started documenting everything—screenshots, voicemails, posts—every “sorry” followed by another ask. Then I called the phone carrier and removed extra lines. Called the insurance company and gave them new payment info for me only. Changed passwords. Closed joint accounts. Anything tying my name to theirs—cut.

Their Spotlight, My Silence

A week later my mom posted a long, vague rant: “It’s sad when people you raise turn their back on you, forgetting who fed and clothed them.” A dozen likes. A heart from my aunt. My sister commented, “Exactly.” Friends messaged to ask if I was okay, whether they should report the post. “No,” I told them. “Let them have their little spotlight. Let them shout into the void.” Behind the scenes, the pieces were falling into place.

Building Our Small, Real Life

Brandon picked up freelance work. We traded shifts with the baby and started to feel like a team. We were tired and counting dollars, but it was ours—the mess, the love, the quiet after a 3 a.m. feeding. One night I walked past the nursery and saw Brandon asleep on the floor beside the crib, one hand on our son’s leg like an anchor. I realized I hadn’t thought of him as my ex in weeks. He was just Brandon. Ours.