“I don’t want you to,” I said. “I just don’t want you trapped in the middle.”
So I removed myself from it.
I moved into a small apartment. Bought a used couch. Adjusted to the quiet of a home with only one toothbrush. I started therapy. I adopted a dog named Max, who believed the bed belonged to him and allowed me space out of kindness. Slowly, the pain softened. The memory became something I could store away instead of relive.
Life continued.
David moved to New York for work. We stayed close—weekly calls, visits when airfare allowed, late-night texts full of jokes. He built his life there. I rebuilt mine here.
Then, last month, my phone rang.
“Hey, Mom,” David said. His voice was tight in a way that immediately worried me.
“What’s wrong?”
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