Driving home from preschool, she said it.
Shoes off, fruit snack on leggings, staring out the window:
“Mom, Lizzie says you’re the evil one. She’s the kind mom.”
My grip tightened, but I stayed calm.
Later, at my mom’s, I checked the nanny cam I’d hidden months ago.
There it was—Lizzie on my couch, Daniel’s hand on her arm, a kiss on her temple.
Not a shock, but it still hit hard.
No yelling. I took screenshots, printed them, called a lawyer.
Two days later, Daniel got the envelope. He called—I hung up.
No drama, no custody fight. Quick divorce.
I let him go. Let Tess love who she loved, even if it hurt.
I didn’t cry until the beach, when Tess said,
“I miss them… but I think I love you the most.”
Tears came—not from anger, but quiet survival.
Later, Lizzie invited me to Tess’s birthday. I went, for Tess.
When she said she loved Tess like her own, I asked,
“Then why did she call me evil?”
She had no answer. I didn’t need one.
That night, Tess curled beside me with seashells.
“Did you cry after I fell asleep?”
“Yes, baby.”
“Happy or sad?”
“Both.”
Now a photo sits on our mantle—me, Tess, and my mom at the beach.
Windblown. Barefoot. Whole.
I didn’t fall apart. I stood up. And Tess ran to me first.
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