Our savings and other marital assets were divided too.
At first, I worried about money.
I wasn’t traditionally employed.
I was an artist.
For years, people had treated that like a hobby simply because I worked from home.
It wasn’t.
I sold original paintings.
Accepted commissions.
Licensed several designs.
And quietly saved and invested part of everything I earned.
I wasn’t wealthy.
But I wasn’t helpless either.
Mason lived primarily with me.
Tyler received regular parenting time, including overnight visits once Mason became comfortable enough.
I never tried to keep them apart.
Mason loved his father.
He was also furious with him.
Both things could be true.
So I learned how to be civil.
Laila and I will never be friends.
I doubt we’ll ever like each other.
But she became part of Mason’s life because his father chose to build a future with her.
And because Mason now had a half-sibling.
I refused to make my son carry adult resentment on my behalf.
A few months after the divorce became final, Mason and I moved into a three-bedroom apartment.
His room was the first one we finished.
The second became mine.
And the third became something I had wanted for years.
A real art studio.
Not a corner of the dining room.
Not canvases hidden behind the couch.
A real room.
Shelves for my paints.
A large worktable.
Good lighting.
A door I could close.
The first night after I finished setting it up, I stood in the middle of that room and cried.
Not because I missed Tyler.
I cried because I finally understood how much of myself I had folded into our marriage without noticing.
Tyler hadn’t simply cheated on me.
He had built an entirely new future before finding the courage to end the one he already had.
And somehow, he had expected me to quietly step aside and accept it.
I don’t hate him anymore.
Most days, I don’t feel strongly enough about him to hate him.
Mason is doing better.
He still asks questions.
Sometimes difficult ones.
