Two days later, Daniel received the envelope. He called, full of excuses. I hung up and blocked him. No drama, no custody battle. The divorce was swift. I let him go, and let Tess love who she loved, even if it hurt.
One evening, at the beach, Tess turned to me. “I miss them sometimes… but I think I love you the most.” Tears welled up—not from anger, but from survival. Later, Lizzie planned Tess’s birthday and sent me an invitation—to my own daughter’s party. I went, for Tess. When Lizzie said she loved Tess like her own, I asked,
“Then why did she think I was the evil one?”
She had no answer. I didn’t need one.
That night, Tess curled beside me, clutching seashells and a beach postcard.
“Did you cry after I fell asleep?”
“Yes, baby.”
“Happy or sad?”
“Both.”
Now, a photo sits on our mantle—me, Tess, and my mom at the beach. Windblown. Barefoot. Whole. I didn’t fall apart. I stood up. And my daughter ran to me first. This story is a testament to resilience, the complexities of love, and the strength found in motherhood.
