Month: October 2025

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I should have said was:
“Oh wow! That’s a unique name. Where did you come up with it?”

But instead, I said:

“P?? That’s a boy’s name.”

My oldest son and his wife were expecting their first child, my first granddaughter. I remember the night they called to share the fantastic news that they were having a girl.

“Do you have any names picked out?” I asked.

With pride and excitement, they told me the name they had chosen.
In my old-lady shock, I blurted out:

“P? Why do you want to name her that? That’s a boy’s name!”

I didn’t realize how in love they were with that name. To my embarrassment, I later learned the error of my disappointing words. What I should have said was:

“Oh wow, that’s really cute.”

Even though at the time I had never heard that name used for a girl, I’ve met a few girls with that name since then. I’ll tell you what, when I hear baby name announcements now, I say things like:

“Ohhh, that’s unique!” or

“Sweet!”

Or, I immediately look it up to see what the name means.

Irie means God’s grace looking down on us.

It was too late to look up the meaning of “P.” It didn’t matter how hard I tried to smooth it over; I said what I said, and what has been said cannot be unsaid.

Turns out “P” means keeper of the parks and nature, the perfect name for a little girl who loves the outdoors. Like a wildflower growing in an unexpected place, her name bloomed in my heart, slowly, then all at once.

These days, I keep my Grandma mouth in check. I’ve learned the art of the polite pause, long enough to Google and nod appreciatively.

I’ve also learned that names, like people, grow on you. And sometimes, the name you couldn’t understand becomes the name you can’t imagine living without.
Now, when I call out to little “P” and she turns around with that curious sparkle in her eyes, I think…

“What a perfect name for such a wild and wonderful little girl.”

If Only…

If Only…

October 18, 2025

If only I weren’t sick with COVID right now, maybe I would feel more inspired or have the energy to put my thoughts on paper. But as fate would have it, I have little thoughts other than those directed towards health and healing.

I was reminded yesterday about a saying I heard or read. It said, “The problem with pain is that it demands to be felt.” The same goes for us. Pain, whether emotional or physical, has an insistent need to be felt.

Am I currently in pain? No, but something definitely feels “off” in my body, and thankfully, I know why. But what about the times when we don’t know why? When I’ve gone to the doctor and they’ve run test after test, only to come up with the same answer: nothing.

What about that feeling that still asks to be felt? I don’t know if I would call it a feeling exactly, but our body is definitely trying to get our attention. It says, Hey, look at me. Something is wrong. Keep looking. Keep searching. So we do, hoping to find a solution.

Often, the pain or problem felt within the body can be linked to something emotional. Something we haven’t fully processed. I know that’s the case with me. I have things, and traumas, and past experiences that I haven’t completely processed, and my body has demanded that I slow down and do that.

If only I listened to it more often. If only I listened to my body, would I then be more in tune with it? In tune with why it’s feeling the things it is feeling?

If only I could type without looking at the keyboard and stop overthinking it. Just as my body asks me to listen, maybe my creativity does too. If only I could just let the fingers move as the spirit led me to type the letters and form the phrases of the story I am writing. What would happen if I let the spirit move my fingers?

I think it’s called muscle memory when your brain remembers specific paths to take or keys to touch. After you’ve done something enough times, your brain knows how to do it. That’s why they say it’s like riding a bike. Apparently, we never forget. It may feel like a rut, but maybe it’s actually the rhythm of remembering, our brain and its muscle memory keeping us on track.

If only I could let go and listen long enough to hear the answers my life has been trying to tell me.

My First Memory Is…

My First Memory Is…

My first memory is of corn.
Chunks, golden and whole, floating in a sour puddle.
My first memory is three concrete steps and a landing, slick with dew.
A door that opened. A mother’s voice, sharp.
Not my mother—someone else’s.
Disappointment.
I wanted to play. I wanted to laugh.
Instead:
A swing, alone.
Then my mother’s face, storming through the park.
Hands pulling.
The walk home.
Do I remember the spanking?
No.
Do I remember the corn?
Always.

One Secret I Still Keep Is…

What You’d Never Guess Just by Looking

Does it have to be just one? There are a few secrets I keep.

The first thing that comes to mind is that I gave birth to 11 children. One at a time. However, that’s no longer really a secret. It is information I usually do not tell people. Not because it is such a big secret, but because their brains cannot seem to comprehend how one woman gave birth to that many children. Or why. Now that is the true secret.

Why? Why did I have that many kids?

Well, first and foremost, because we were in a religious mindset that allowed God to choose how many children we have. But I will tell you that when I was 40 and pregnant, I chose for myself to get that fertile tube tied up, or cut off, or whatever they do, so I cannot get pregnant again. (I only had one tube and ovary by the time 11 came around.) Another reason I had 11 children was that, with the birth of each new baby, came another person/soul who would love me unconditionally and make my fractured life feel whole, even if only temporarily. I desperately longed for someone to love me. And when a baby looks up at you and smiles because you are their entire world, you get the feeling.

Love. The missing piece of me.

Maybe it sounds selfish, but I wanted someone to need me the way I had needed others who didn’t show up.

Another secret I  keep is about my oldest son being in prison. He was a highly respected individual. Everyone loved him. So, for the longest time, whenever anyone asked me where he was or how he was doing, I would answer, “I don’t want to talk about it.” But the bigger secret in that is why he is in prison.

Why?

Because he was so traumatized as a child that he sexually traumatized a child, that’s why. It’s not an excuse, just a truth I’ve had to live with. Pain that isn’t healed will try to find something — or someone — to break.

A third secret I don’t tell anyone: I was a pastor’s wife for 20 years. I never really asked myself why I was, so the “why” in this situation is: why do I keep it a secret? Good question, good soul search here.

Why?

Because I do not want anyone to ask me what I believe now, I am still trying to figure all that out. Like, do I still want to use the term “God,” or is it the Universe, or is it just Spirit? None of those feels right. The closest to feeling like my truth is Universal God or Universal Spirit. But like I said, I am still working that out. I keep it a secret because I do not want people trying to persuade me back into church, back into conformity. I do not want to go to church every Sunday and Wednesday. I don’t want to go door-knocking, soul-witnessing, or whatever they call it. I cannot sit in a service without being overcome with anxiety. My nervous system shuts down, and I usually fall asleep. But I sit there and feel like a ghost of myself, singing words that no longer have a place to land inside me. I know this because I have tried. I tried to find a church so my youngest son could get a taste of religion and decide for himself whether it is something he wants. It’s a secret because I probably disagree with 90% of what they might be talking about if you tried to strike a spiritual conversation. I have read the Bible cover to cover multiple times. There is nothing they can say that will get me to see things differently. It’s a secret because I have not yet dared to share my beliefs with the world.

But here’s a start.

I believe God was female in nature. I believe the Bible is a history book. I think every religion has its great “man of the hour.” The Christians had Jesus. The Muslims have Mohammad. The Jews have the Messiah, and so on. I believe it’s the same thing, just described in a different style. Reaping what you sow is the same thing as karma. The Ten Commandments do not differ much from the Delphic maxims. Maybe the real secret isn’t what I’ve kept — it’s how long I’ve waited to say it out loud.

And the last secret I keep is my age.

They say you’re only as old as you feel. Some days I think I’m 37. Other days I feel 57. It changes with the weather, the weight of the day, or the way my knees sound when I stand up too fast. People often tell me I look so young — thankfully. And I want to keep it that way. Because age isn’t just a number, it’s a perception. It’s the difference between someone listening to your story and brushing it off. So I let them guess. And I let myself believe it too, some days.

The Book That Changed Everything

How grace broke the chains of control in my home and heart

“We are responsible to each other, not for each other.”
— Jeff VanVonderen, Families Where Grace Is in Place

I don’t remember the exact year or even where we were living at the time. But I know it was somewhere between 2007 and 2009 when I picked up a book that would change everything: Families Where Grace Is in Place by Jeff VanVonderen.

I didn’t know it then, but those pages were about to unravel everything I thought I believed about parenting, marriage, and faith.

Before Grace

At the time, I was a stay-at-home wife and a homeschooling mom of ten. Number eleven would arrive later. I was also a preacher’s wife. My husband and I were fully immersed in Independent Fundamental Baptist ministry. We pastored churches, traveled as evangelists, and held revival meetings across the country.

We were loyal. Passionate. Zealous. And convinced we were right.

We preached that having a television was sinful. That women wearing pants was sinful. That too much makeup was sinful—though a little was allowed, so long as it didn’t “draw attention.” I sewed all my own dresses and wore my hair long—though thanks to my hormones, it rarely got far past my shoulders.

We were strict with our children. They had no phones, no TV (because we didn’t own one), no outside friends, no sports. We believed all of those things would lead to sin. We even pulled our oldest son out of college once, convinced he was living “outside the umbrella” of parental authority.

We spanked often. Sometimes for small things. Sometimes for nothing more than an attitude. Every day, we sat our kids down and taught them right from wrong. We drilled obedience into them—not from a place of love, but fear. Fear that if they messed up, it would reflect badly on us. That we’d look like failures. That God would be disappointed.

When we lived in Iowa, I made my girls wear skirts over their snowsuits just to play outside. When we went swimming, it was always in remote places. The girls swam in culottes. The boys wore jeans. My children weren’t allowed to have their own opinions or make their own decisions.

They were born walking on eggshells—and we made sure those eggshells never cracked.

The Book

I don’t recall how I ended up with Families Where Grace Is in Place. Maybe someone passed it to me. Perhaps I picked it up on a whim. But as I began reading, the words leaped off the page. Sentence after sentence felt like someone had opened a window I didn’t even know was there.

The book talked about how families fall into cycles of control, pressure, and manipulation—often in the name of love or righteousness. It spoke of the deep weariness that comes from trying to meet impossible standards. The perfectionism. The fear of failure.

That was us. Especially with so many children, we constantly felt watched, judged, and evaluated. Our theology was built on performance. And we were exhausted.

Then came a line that hit me in the chest:

“We are responsible to each other, not for each other.”

It undid me. All at once, I saw the truth. I wasn’t parenting out of love—I was parenting out of fear. I wasn’t guiding my husband—I was trying to control him. And he was trying to control me. Together, we had built a family that looked good on the outside but was suffocating on the inside.

The book painted a different vision: one where grace replaced fear. Where children were free to make decisions and mistakes. Where love didn’t mean control. Where acceptance was not conditional on perfection.

And something inside me shifted.

The Bridge

As I read, I had one aha moment after another.

I realized we were trying so hard to protect our children from the world that we were crushing their spirits. We didn’t want them to sin, so we removed their freedom. We didn’t want them to mess up—so we made every decision for them. We called it holiness. But really, it was fear.

Even our decision to homeschool wasn’t about education. It was about control. About keeping their behavior within a bubbl,e we could manage.

After trying to “homeschool with grace” for a while, I finally admitted the truth: we weren’t equipped. So we enrolled our children in public school.

It wasn’t a seamless transition. One of my daughters started school in her junior year and had to double up on math to catch up. Thankfully, Arkansas accepted her science, history, and English credits. One of my younger girls had to repeat kindergarten because I hadn’t finished the year—we had opened a daycare in our home, and it consumed my time and attention.

My third daughter and fifth son—only a year and a half apart—both entered fourth grade the same year. He had fallen behind under my teaching. I warned the principal to separate them; I knew she’d do all his work if they stayed together. They listened, and the school helped bring him up to speed within that year.

During this season of change, I was also starting to rediscover my own worth. I filed for a restraining order against my abusive husband. For a time, I let him come back—still caught in that old belief that if I just tried harder, he would change. That if I prayed more, obeyed more, submitted more, he would become the man I needed.

But I was beginning to see: you can’t change someone by controlling them. You can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed.

After Grace

It’s been over 16 years since I read that book. My baby is now a junior in high school. The way I parent him is entirely different than how I raised the others—especially the oldest ones.

I’ve apologized to some of my children. I’ve told them I wish I could go back and do it all differently. And I mean it. I see some of them now, parenting the way I once did—out of fear, trying to control everything. But I don’t lecture. I offer gentle reminders. I try to model something different.

Our family structure isn’t perfect. Our children aren’t perfect. I’m not perfect. One of my sons is in prison. That hurts to say. But even in that, grace remains. We no longer try to control each other. We don’t panic when we see a child or sibling making choices we wouldn’t make. We offer love. We offer space.

And we let go.

Letting go is hard. Watching someone you love repeat mistakes you’ve already made is hard. Trusting grace instead of fear is hard.

But control?

Control is harder.

💬 Want to share your story of breaking free from control-based parenting or faith structures? Comment below or message me privately — you’re not alone.

What I Remember About My Father

What I remember first — the very first image that comes to mind — is my father brushing my hair every morning, getting me ready for day care. His hands were always careful, his attention focused. In those early mornings, he wasn’t just my dad — he was my caregiver, my protector, my world.

Then came the time he left for officers’ training. OTC. Boot camp. I didn’t understand what that meant, only that he was gone, and I was devastated. It felt like forever. When we visited, it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same. The warmth had changed — not gone, but buried under something sterner, more rigid. He had shifted, and even though I couldn’t name it at the time, I felt the weight of that difference. The fun, the gentleness — they weren’t as easy to reach in him anymore.

I don’t know when it happened, but there was a time I hated my dad. I don’t remember the reasons. I just remember the feeling — sharp, fiery. I wrote about it in my diary, used words like “asshole” or maybe even “son of a bitch.” I think my mom read that entry once. She tried to talk to me about it. I just told her I hated him. I don’t think I explained why. I don’t think I could.

I remember Sundays. My dad used to drive the church bus, getting up early to head to the church and prepare for it. He left without me, even though I desperately wanted to ride with the other church kids. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed. Mom and I always ended up there eventually, but still — that moment of being left behind stuck with me.

As a teenager, I saw a different side of my father: the provider. He worked long hours, especially during tax season. He’d skip church, come home late. My mom was often irritated by him pouring so much of himself into work. But he always made sure we had what we needed. No matter how tired, no matter how stretched thin, he provided.

I remember the day he was paying property taxes. He told me he had to pay for me to go to two schools — the Christian school and the public one. I didn’t understand at first, but I could hear the strain in his voice. The frustration. So I made a choice. I started going to public school. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t want him to have to carry that burden. I don’t know if I ever told him that’s why.

And still — for all of it — I always told my friends that my dad might come across like a bear, big and growling and stern. But really? He was a big ol’ teddy bear. Underneath the rugged exterior was still the man who used to brush my hair every morning, who got me ready for day care, who — whether he knew how to show it or not — loved me deeply.

What I Remember About My Mom…

What I remember about my mother is…

October 14, 2025

With a title like that, it makes me feel like it should go under the title of “what I can’t write about”. What I remember about my mother is how emotionally unstable she was when I was a teenager. But should I stay focused on that? I feel guilty even putting that on paper. Shouldn’t I be looking for the happy moments to remember about my mom? Like the time she took me to Disneyland? Or the time we simultaneously fell on the beach? Or the time we drove, what felt like across country, to visit family in Texas. Those were some fun times. And I suppose, if I allow myself, I can recall those and focus on them instead, but it feels like my mind wants to dwell on the events that scarred me or caused the most unrest.

Once, I remember in particular. She came home from church crying, sobbing, actually. Staring at her hands, hands that were starting to wither and constrict from years as a red cross nurse. When my 15-year-old-self asked her why she was crying.

She said, “Because Gayle wouldn’t talk to me . She wouldn’t even shake my hand”.

Gayle and my mom were best friends for a long time, then all of a sudden they weren’t. Some issue went down between my mom and Gayle’s son, Dave, the same one who molested me. And Gayle no longer wanted to be friends with my mom. I could not understand why she was allowing another human to cause her such distress. This woman controlled my mom’s every emotion. As a teenager, I wished my mom had been stronger. I knew that I was not able to go to my mom if I was in distress. She wouldn’t be able to handle it. I needed her to be emotionally available. I needed her to protect me. But instead, I had to be strong for her—a fifteen-year-old girl holding up a grown woman who couldn’t carry her own grief. She leaned on me like I was her anchor, her therapist.

What she wanted—what she demanded—was my undying devotion, my complete loyalty, maybe even my worship. But her constant victimhood repulsed me. The way she wallowed in it, wrapped herself in it like a favorite robe. She didn’t just live in that identity—she tried to pass it on to me. Now that I am an adult, she looks at me like I am broken. Like I am stuck in suffering, too fragile to stand on my own. But I’m not. I have already learned how to carry pain quietly. She doesn’t see that. She only sees what she wants to—someone who needs saving, so she can be the savior. But I don’t need her to rescue me. I need her to show up, like I needed when I was a teenager.

I remember my mom would go places on the weekends with her friends, and I would feel abandoned and neglected, wondering why she never took me. I suppose that is the life of a lonely only child. You get used to them keeping themselves occupied that you forget to invite them to places. Or maybe they stop asking because they always say no, like my last and only child at home.

I remember my mother being capitulating, emotionally distraught, and neglectful. It’s hard to put into words how exhausting it was to carry the emotional weight she dropped. I didn’t just have a mother—I had a fragile force of chaos that needed managing. I was the one steadying the ship, reading her moods like weather, preparing for storms. She needed me to be her anchor, her audience, her child-lover and devotee. But I needed her just to be a mother. I needed someone who could tell me everything was going to be okay. Instead, I spent most of my youth making her feel okay.

I also remember how she was so spiritual and sanctimonious until her family came around. She didn’t drink unless they were there. Now bear with me, I detect I am being a bit judgmental here, because I was raised in church and taught that drinking was sinful. So to see her drink when family came around seemed like a double standard. My adult self sees it a little differently now. I don’t know how to put it on paper. But good for her for choosing not to drink daily. Only allowing herself to let go of her inhibitions when the family was around.

I remember when I threw them a 25th anniversary party, I was a staunch Christian at the time, and I made sure EVERYONE knew that there was no alcohol allowed. So, they brought it in their ice chests, in the back of their cars. They would step outside to chug their beloved beer. I attempted to create order—purity—something untangled and clean. I wanted to make her proud, but I also wanted to undo the parts of her that embarrassed me, shamed me, weakened me. I wanted her to see me as strong, in control, untouched by the mess she seemed to bathe in. But the truth is, even then, I was still craving her approval, still hoping she’d finally see me—see what I was building to survive what she gave me.

Drinking is and was a thing my family does, has done, and still does. I did a genetic test, and it showed that specific genes inhibit my ability to produce dopamine. I can’t help but wonder if this is an inherited thing and why drinking and drugs are the go-to for dopamine hits in our family. Then I think about my mom and her pain pill addiction.  She’s not like the ones you would think of who take them to be high; she’s what we call functioning. She waits until a specific time of day. Then mixes it with a beer for the best effect. But cannot go a day without the pill. To do so would cause excruciating pain.

What I remember about my mom is how she wanted to file for grandparent rights because we were not letting her see the grandkids, because she wasn’t in church, or because she was drinking. Honestly, I do not remember the actual reason why we did that.  Again, it was self-righteousness on my part, but I remember that about my mom.

What I remember about my mom is how, when I turned my 22-year-old son in for molesting his sister, Mom was willing to stand by his side to testify on his behalf instead of standing by my daughter. THAT is what I remember about my mom. How she allows him to call her every week, how she gives him money, and how she accepts his letters. I know that is her grandson. It is my son. It hurts. It stings. But everyone assumes that “that is memaw,” and she can be weird like that. What devastates me isn’t just her loyalty to him. It’s what her loyalty costs. Her silence toward my daughter. Her refusal to draw a line. Her willingness to let me fracture. It’s like she needed to prove she could still be someone’s everything—and he gave her that opportunity. That kind of loyalty looks like love, but it isn’t love. It’s desperation. She’s always needed someone to cling to, to believe in, to fight for. I just never understood why it couldn’t be me.

What I remember is when she left my dad because she was so sure he was filming child pornography in their home. (He wasn’t) She still believes that to this day. Mom is delusional. Currently struggling with thinking someone has hacked her Facebook. Yes, it’s possible, but after looking at it multiple times, her FB is not being hacked. She has forgotten how to navigate it, and if FB upgrades, she will be even more confused and, with absolute certainty, think she is being hacked by someone else. There’s something hollow about watching your parent decline into paranoia. There’s grief in it, but also resentment. She still calls me like I’m her tech support, her lifeline, her handler. But I’ve been handling her my whole life. There’s no space to say, “I can’t do this anymore.” She wouldn’t hear it. She would only feel betrayed. Every time I try to step away, I feel like the bad daughter. But being her daughter has always felt like an assignment I didn’t ask for.

Reminding myself that I don’t have to decide right away whether to focus only on the “happy moments” or only on the painful ones. Memory is not tidy. It rarely divides neatly between joy and hurt. Often, the most actual writing comes when both are allowed to sit side by side.

I remember how, when she laughs, it is crackly, raspy. She has COPD from years of smoking. Laughter will send her into a coughing fit. Although the cough sounds congested, it is never productive; the phlegm persists.

I remember how mom goes silent when she is angry or feels wronged. Mom often feels like she has been wronged. She views life through a victim’s eyes.

When mom looks at me, she looks at me with pity, as if I am experiencing some horrible event. Yes, many times I have. But my daily life as a mom, wife, and office manager is not horrific, and I am not a victim because I go to work every day (well, technically not every day). It’s like she wants me to be wounded. Like she needs me to be just as broken as she is so she can understand me—or maybe justify herself. She calls it concern. But it feels like a projection. I’m not fragile. I’m tired. I’m functioning, flawed, healing—but I’m not living in a wound like she does. And every time she looks at me with those sad eyes, it’s like she’s trying to pull me back into her story, her suffering. I won’t go.

But still—I remember her. All of it. The good, the unbearable, the beautiful, the warped. I remember her as she was, not as I wish she had been. Maybe that’s the most honest kind of remembering there is. Not choosing sides between pain and peace, but letting them live together and letting them both be true. What I can’t write about is exactly what needs to be written. And maybe, somehow, that’s enough.

It’s Time To Start Therapy

TRIGGER WARNING: SA

Forgive the rawness of the following:

What I can’t write about is the duality that comes with being the mom of a child molester and the mom of the molested. It hurts my heart space. Makes my chest tight. Sitting here trying to type about not being able to write about it isn’t easy. It’s met with resistance. I want to spill it all out here on these pages, but an unseen force hinders me. Whether that force is from within or from outside remains to be acknowledged. I know it’s not an outside source. It is from within. It is me. My inner mom, my parts, that is the mom—the mom of both. I don’t want to write about how horrible it felt hearing my daughter talk about what happened to her. I don’t want to write about how it felt to listen to my son admit to doing those things and then witness the

sentencing. But here we are. I’ve been told twice that he is up for parole. It has only been a few years, it feels. But it’s been 10. He was sentenced to 50. I guess I just assumed I would never see him again. I thought my parents would pass away before he was released. I had a lot of assumptions. And now. I feel as helpless today as I did back in 2015. I have to tell my daughter; she has a right to know. But I do not want it to derail her.  But she has the right to take action. Action no one has told her about. Then I had a brief moment of wondering whether she knew. Suppose she were hiding the truth from me, so I am the one who wouldn’t be derailed. But no, I don’t think so. I have absolutely no idea how to bring this up to her. I think the first sentence will be, “It’s time for you to start therapy.”

I Remember

I remember when all my writing revolved around the trauma I was going through. I also remember when I used to write about my morning devotions and a word from the lord. Today, I jokingly call ChatGPT the lord because we seem to put so much stock into what it says when we ask it questions. I remember writing a poem to release all the pent-up emotions I had. Writing was a way for me to heal. Now that I am on the healing side, I would like to say I am completely healed, but I often find more wounds that have gone unnoticed or unchecked, so it’s still a journey of healing, but at this point, now that I am on this side, the good side of the journey, it seems as if writing is harder. Like, I don’t have as much to say. I feel like I have lost my voice. I stopped singing, I stopped writing. Not because I was silenced, but because I did not feel like I had anything to say. In the past, everything I said was a complaint or problem, and I was trying to find answers and solutions. Is this why the body —my body —has decided to give me something else to seek answers for? My gut, and it’s weird ass histamine intolerance? I think so. I also believe that I would much rather write instead of searching low-histamine meals and try to figure out if it is SIBO, MCAS, or low estrogen, which, by the way, is a thing. Like, can’t I go back to writing about problems and finding solutions? Uh, just as I typed that out, I realized I do not, under any circumstances, want to experience all the crap I have been through, and I definitely do not wish it on anyone else. 

I remember when I would sing songs, like “Thank You for the Valley,” because a valley was a hard time you go through that supposedly brings you closer to God. God. That’s a whole nuther subject. Like, who is he really?

So, maybe I have not lost my voice; perhaps it is just learning to speak in a new way.

The Post-it Note

Sitting at the giant mahogany desk, I stared at the stack of papers in front of me. I reached up and twisted the plastic stick on the blinds, narrowing the slats until the sunlight no longer glared off the computer screen. It was that time of year again—tax season. The task ahead was daunting, and my lack of proper filing over the year left me with quite a challenge.

We had started our own cleaning business last year in a small, dying town. Surprisingly, it did pretty well. We were the only business in the city offering house cleaning, and people appreciated the idea of hiring professionals rather than a friend of a friend. They especially liked our attention to detail, a trait I had perfected after years of living with an OCD narcissist. Our motto was: “We don’t cut corners, we clean them!” That’s precisely what I did. I reached behind toilets, dusted ceiling fans, and even cleaned the baseboards every time. It was honest work, and I was damn good at it.

I began separating receipts and invoices into different piles, sorting through them with the half-confidence of someone who grew up watching a CPA at work. A musty smell drifted from the papers, dust rising with every movement.

“Achoo! Achoo! Aaaa—Aaaa—huh—”

I clamped my nose shut to block the third sneeze.

As I wiped my eyes, a small yellow slip of paper drifted into my lap. Curious, I picked it up. Scribbled in uneven handwriting were three words:

“I deserve better.”

It wasn’t my handwriting. I did not recognize it at all. Still, it was there, staring up at me.

Where had it come from? Who wrote it? Had it been hiding among the receipts all this time?

It didn’t matter who wrote it. It was like a message sent straight from the universe. My heart gave a slow, deliberate flutter as I shivered.

I read the words aloud.

“I deserve better.”

Chills ran down my spine. I shuddered.

“I deserve better,” I repeated, softer this time.

My mind wandered back to just a few weeks ago when Albert had asked me, “Do you even like me?”

I had replied, “No, but I love you.”

The truth was, I couldn’t stand him. I didn’t respect him, didn’t trust him, didn’t even like being in the same room as him. I was only with him for the sake of the kids. In a few years, we would have been married for twenty-five years. And I figured, if I had made it that far, I might as well ride it out to the end.

For better or for worse, right?

That was the lie I told myself. That if we stuck it out, maybe something would change. Maybe we’d rediscover what we once thought we had. Perhaps we’d fall madly in love again. Maybe he’d get control of his emotions, stop being angry at everything and everyone. Maybe he’d start showing me he loved me with little gestures of kindness—a note, or flowers. Maybe he’d stop telling me I’m fat or that he hates me. Criticizing the way I dressed or styled my hair.

Maybe. But deep down, I knew better.

“I deserve better,” I whispered again. This time, it felt different.

Then the fear crept in.

How? How would I support myself and the kids? How could I possibly make it on my own? There were ten mouths to feed. Ten kids to clothe. Yes, you read that right—ten. One was in the military, thankfully independent now, but the rest still relied on me.

I stared at the slip of paper, running my thumb over the pen marks as if that could somehow transfer strength into my bones. Then, slowly, I slid the note into the drawer beside the paperclips. A secret. A seed.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the moment everything quietly began to shift. Subtly. But undeniably.

One day, during a cleaning job, Albert looked at me while I was polishing the dining room table and asked, “Do you even want to be with me anymore?”

I stopped what I was doing and looked up. I looked straight into his eyes, shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I don’t know.”

This was the first time in our marriage I did not care how my words made him feel. I spoke my truth.

It was the truth. I didn’t know how to live without him. I didn’t know how to carry the full weight of our family on my shoulders alone. I didn’t know if I could.

But I knew I didn’t love him. Not really. And I certainly didn’t like him. That was very clear.

I saw the panic in his eyes as his face grimaced and he made the whimpering sound of a two-year-old.

The months that followed were like cooking dinner with the smoke alarm ready to scream at any second. Every step echoed with the fear of collapse.

But I tried. I tried to be the best version of myself. A better wife. A better mother. I smiled more. I was nicer to him, more understanding and complimentary of him. I even bought new lingerie.

But when you know you deserve better, something changes. You stop settling. You stop hoping that toxic patterns will magically heal.

And you start looking—not for another man, but for another life. A better one.

One where you deserve better.