I worked nonstop to buy our dream home

‘Oh no, Jack,’ I reply, my tone cheerful. ‘You’re leaving me.’

He looks around, confused. ‘Where am I supposed to go?’

I shrug. ‘Your parents are right here. Maybe you three can find a new tradition together. I’m sure the gaming console will keep you warm.’

He doesn’t fight. He doesn’t scream.

He just stands there like someone pulled the ground out from under him.

I move into a sunny two-bedroom apartment downtown with my son, where no one takes my bed, my time, or my peace. It’s small, but it’s mine.

And it is quiet.

Peaceful.

Mine.

A month later, I get a letter in the mail — a groveling note from Jack, scribbled in desperate handwriting. He’s sorry. He didn’t mean to hurt me. His parents are driving him insane. Can we talk?

I toss it in the trash.

And then I go back to painting the hallway a soft lilac.

Because I’m not just moving out — I’m moving on.