Being alone is better than being afraid.
My daughter’s guest room is better than walking on eggshells in a place that’s supposed to be home.
Starting over is better than staying somewhere that makes you disappear.
I don’t know what my future looks like yet—whether I’ll date again, whether I’ll eventually get my own place, whether I’ll stay here with Emma until she has kids and needs the space.
But whatever happens, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
I will never again mistake control for care.
I will never again shrink myself to make someone else comfortable.
And I will never again ignore that small, persistent voice of unease that knows the truth before your brain is ready to accept it.
