Our divorce was brutal but final.
Papers were signed, and arrangements with lawyers were made. We blocked each other everywhere afterward.
I rebuilt my life. That’s what I told myself I did.
Or at least that’s the story he told me, doctors, and eventually friends…
Then last Tuesday, my phone buzzed while I was half-watching a rerun and folding laundry I’d already put off for days.
It was a Facebook message request from a woman I didn’t recognize.
Weary, I did a quick background check without reading the message.
Her profile picture looked harmless. She had a soft smile, dark-blonde hair pulled back, and a neutral background that could’ve been anywhere. Nothing alarming.
Until I saw her last name.
Weary, I did a quick background check…
It was the same as Elliot’s!
My stomach dropped so hard I actually pressed my palm against it, as if that would stop the feeling from spreading.
I stared at the screen for far too long before reopening the woman’s original message. Like, if I didn’t click on it, it couldn’t be real.
As if the universe needed my permission to ruin my evening.
The message was short, polite, and almost rehearsed.
But it was anything but innocent.
