I believed Mark and I would be together for life—just like we promised on our wedding day. For seven years, we shared what seemed like a perfect marriage. I worked from home as a freelance designer, and we were that couple everyone admired—connected, affectionate, in sync.
The only real heartache was our struggle to conceive. After two difficult years, I finally got pregnant. When Sophie was born, it felt like life had found its rhythm again.
At Mark’s promotion party, Sophie wore a pink dress. I chose blue. The venue was lit with string lights. While I mingled, Sophie tugged my arm and said, “Mommy, that’s the lady with the worms!”
She pointed to Tina—Mark’s coworker. Sophie added, “Daddy said not to tell you.”
At home, Mark claimed she saw curlers and called them worms as a joke. But guilt lived in his eyes.
I met Tina days later. Calmly, she said, “He told me it wouldn’t take long.”
“You can have him,” I replied.
I filed for separation. Now, Sophie won’t go if Tina’s around. And me? I’m healing—one brushstroke, one breath at a time.
