As I sat at my Formica table, the sting of the text still fresh, a quiet determination began to settle in. I could let this moment define me, or I could redefine it. I chose the latter. I’ve always been a woman of action, and this time would be no different.
I got up and walked to my living room, where family photos lined one wall. I paused at a picture of my son as a boy, his gap-toothed smile wide and genuine. Then, I moved to my bookshelf and pulled out an old, leather-bound book. Inside was a collection of letters my husband and I had exchanged when we were courting, each page filled with scribbled notes and heartfelt promises.
Inspired, I picked up my pen and began to write. Not an angry letter or a plea for understanding, but a letter to myself—a reaffirmation of who I was and who I had always been. I reminded myself of my strength, my resilience, and the love I had poured into my son’s life. I wrote about the mornings I’d woken up before dawn to pack his lunches, the nights spent comforting him through heartbreaks, and the joy in watching him grow into a man.
