When my son walked through the door that Tuesday afternoon, cradling two newborn babies, I felt my world tilt on its axis, the apartment around me.
Our modest two-bedroom refuge — suddenly felt both too small and impossibly vast. Then he spoke, and the words he chose shattered every expectation.
I had about motherhood, family, and what it truly means to sacrifice. I never imagined my life would take a turn like this. My name is Jennifer, and I’m 43 years old.
For the past five years, I’ve been navigating the aftermath of the worst divorce imaginable. My ex-husband, Derek, didn’t simply leave — he ripped apart the life we had built together, leaving me and our son, Josh, with just enough to scrape by.
