When I filed for divorce, my ex didn’t argue or beg — he came back to the house I’d been awarded and started tearing apart our twins’ bedroom. He said he was “taking what he paid for.” But then he got a phone call that made him turn pale.
I’m 31 years old, and I’ll call myself Tessa for the sake of this story.
I have twin boys named Wren and Callum, and an ex-husband who taught me something important: control doesn’t always come with fists or shouting.
Sometimes it arrives wearing a smile, carrying a paycheck, and saying the words, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”
You know what I mean, right? The kind of control that looks like love from the outside.
When I married Blaine, people said the same nice things over and over again.
“You’re so lucky,” my aunt told me at the engagement dinner.
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