I hadn’t expected a divorce to drain me the way mine did.
Ethan and I had finalized it not long before, but the process had been brutal. My ex-husband had money—he owned three restaurants across the city—and he was determined to keep every cent.
Throughout the divorce, he fought over everything. I still remember him standing in our kitchen, pointing at the microwave and refrigerator, saying, “I get those because I paid for them!”
By the end, I was completely worn out.
I work at a pharmacy—long hours, stable income. Money was tight, but Olivia and I were managing. She’s eight, bright, and never once complained about how things had changed.
We had our own rhythm. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked for us.
Then one afternoon, everything unraveled.
I was midway through my shift when my phone rang.
The number was unfamiliar, but something told me I had to answer.
“Is this Olivia’s mother?” a man asked.
My stomach dropped. “Yes. What happened?”
“She had a fall while riding her bike. An ambulance is bringing her in now.”
After that, everything blurred. I don’t remember hearing the hospital’s name, grabbing my things, or clocking out.
When I arrived, they had already taken her in. Her nanny was pacing nervously. I sent her home—she was too shaken to even call me after the accident.
