At some point, I realized no one was coming to save me.
Not him.
Not some miracle.
Not even time.
It was just me.
So I got out of bed one morning, even though I hadn't slept much. I washed my face, changed into real clothes, and stared at the mirror. My eyes looked tired. My heart still ached. But I told myself, Today, we try.
I opened the laptop. Typed "jobs near me."
The first few interviews were hard. I hadn't worked in years. I stumbled over answers, felt embarrassed explaining the gap. One person asked, "Are you married?" and I froze for a second before forcing a smile.
"No. It's just me and my son now."
Some didn't call back.
Some offered jobs that paid too little or asked for too much.
But one day—someone said yes.
It wasn't a dream job. But it was something.
Something that told me: You're still capable.
I started working. My body ached at night, but my soul felt a little less heavy.
I still cried—sometimes in the bathroom, sometimes into my pillow. But every morning, I got up again.
I started writing too.
I poured my heart into blank pages, one memory at a time. Not to make anyone understand me—but so I could understand myself.
I wrote about the pain.
I wrote about the guilt.
I wrote about my child's quiet courage, and my mother's soft hands holding mine at my weakest.
And for the first time, my words didn't sound like sorrow.
They sounded like survival.
Maybe even strength.