I woke up early, ironing Lucas’s shirt in the quiet kitchen. It was his first day of first grade, and I wanted everything perfect—even if our life wasn’t.
Travis had fallen asleep on the couch again, beer can under the table, TV still on. I tried to wake him. He mumbled and rolled over.
Lucas was excited. He wanted all three of us there. “Daddy’s coming, right?” he asked. I lied and said yes.
Travis said he’d drive separately. He never showed. Just a lazy text: “Might be late.”
So I walked Lucas in alone. Just us.
Then I heard it—his teacher called him “Jamie.” Lucas didn’t correct her. Travis stood by like it was normal.
Later, Travis said he was taking Lucas to his mom’s. A surprise father-son night. Something felt off.
He put Lucas in the car, called me a cab, and left. I made a split-second decision: “Follow that car.”
We tracked him to a house with a pool. Lucas ran straight inside like he knew the place. And when Travis kissed the woman who answered the door—Lucas’s teacher—I felt my world crack.
I tried to sneak in, got scratched up, and fell in poison ivy. Travis, Jenna, and Lucas found me in the yard. I was a mess—itching, sweating, furious.
Travis snapped at me. I snapped back. And then Lucas said something that broke me:
“Daddy told me to pretend I was Jamie. So Jenna wouldn’t be sad.”
Turns out, Jenna had lost a son named Jamie. Travis let her treat our son like hers. He called it helping.
I called it betrayal.
I didn’t go to a lawyer. I went to Travis’s mom. Told her everything. She was horrified—and on my side.
So I left Travis. Took the house, support, and freedom. Let his mother keep her bond with Lucas.
Jenna? I let her be. She’d lost enough.
But Travis? He watched his whole life slip through his fingers. Quietly. Piece by piece.