Isat at the dining table, quietly watching Cameron and Harper on the carpet, surrounded by scattered pieces of her beloved Lego Juniors. She was showing him how to build it, and he played along, pretending not to know what to do. Her little hands guided his, her voice full of excitement, and he listened with all the patience in the world.
Watching them, the noise in my head faded.
I felt a sense of peace.
I didn’t know how long it would last, but at that moment, I let it in. I let it warm me from the inside.
And I tried not to brace myself for the moment it would end, for the part where I’d be left behind all over again.
Lately, I’ve been learning to hold on to moments like this, to appreciate the small blessings that arrive quietly. My past didn’t have to seep into every part of my life. It didn’t have to define my present or shape my future. I wasn’t there yet, but I’ve come to realize that this is what I need to do if I want to find happiness.
Even though regret still comes uninvited sometimes—regret for never asking for help, for convincing myself I could handle everything alone, for how hard it was to admit I was wrong, to face that I hurt the people who cared for me before they could hurt me first, for believing so fiercely that everyone would leave, for struggling to say those words even to Harper, the one person I loved more than anyone in this world—I hoped, God, I really hoped, that she knew. Even if I didn’t say it enough, I hoped she could feel how deeply I loved her.
My eyes settled on Cameron. I remembered every moment I’d hurt him while he was only trying to be there for me. It amazed me how long he kept insisting on staying.
But his betrayal still stung. I was not fully healed, and honestly, I didn’t know where to go from here.
We’re officially divorced.
The text hit me hard, and with it came the old, crippling fear of abandonment. Cameron must have gotten the same message from his lawyer.
I was scared it might make him walk away forever.
But he hadn’t left since—not even for work.
He would need to go back soon, though, because at the end of the day, bills had to be paid, loans settled, and the mortgage covered. It had been two months since Cameron and I took leave. We had only planned for one, but I wasn’t ready—physically or emotionally—and Cameron decided he wasn’t either. I knew it was because he wanted to stay close, to be here for me.
But even I knew it couldn’t last forever. Eventually, we’d have to return to work.
The therapy had gone better than I expected. I thought I’d be pushed to talk about everything right away, but that didn’t happen. My therapist never rushed me. He focused instead on helping me feel safe, teaching me how to ground myself, how to manage the waves when they came, and how to recognize a trigger before it consumed me.
In some sessions, I barely spoke. Others left me completely drained. But slowly, I began to feel less like a prisoner to my own mind. I wasn’t healed, not even close. But I had tools now. And I no longer felt so powerless. And I had hopes, hopes that didn’teven occur to me before. Hopes that someday, happiness would be finally within reach.
Harper laughed at something Cameron said—a full belly laugh that made her tilt her head back while clutching her stomach. Then she climbed into his lap, held his face in her hands, and shook it with playful delight. Cameron laughed too, and just watching them made me smile.
I laughed softly without meaning to.
Then my eyes began to sting. I blinked, but the tears came anyway, warm and quiet. And I let them fall.
I was learning that it was okay to cry, even if someone were to see me, even if every instinct in me still wanted to turn away, to hide it.
When Cameron and Harper looked over and saw me, Cameron stood up immediately. His voice was tight with worry as he said, “Sloane? Why are you crying? What’s wrong?” He looked panicked, already moving toward me.
But Harper got to me first.
She climbed into my lap, wrapped her little arms around me, and said, “Are those happy tears, Mommy? ‘Cause Mr. Boone said sometimes people cry when they’re happy too, not just when they’re sad.”
God, I cried even harder. I pulled my daughter into my arms and held her like I never wanted to let go. If I could have stayed in that moment forever, I would have. Just the three of us, still and safe.
Cameron reached out, brushing his knuckles gently along my cheek. I looked up and found his gaze softening. I was grateful he didn’t say a word; he just let me have this moment. He always seemed to know what to do, yet he continued to learn how to bepresent with me, how to give me what I needed, and how not to break himself apart in the process.
He told me he started going to counseling too, not just for me but also for himself. Because he had kept so much buried, made choices that nearly broke everything. Choices that broke me.
One night, I asked him if he’d talked to his therapist about why he stayed with me. I wanted to hear the truth, the kind of truth people only admit in quiet, safe spaces like that.
He didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I gave a lot of reasons to him. But the one I kept coming back to was this—I love her.”
He looked straight at me.
