I remember standing in the kitchen afterward, holding Wells on one hip and a pile of unpaid bills in my hand.
I didn’t cry. I couldn’t afford to. The next day, I picked up two jobs—working reception during the day and serving tables at night. That routine became my life.
Survival took over everything. Wake up. Work. Cook. Clean. Repeat.
Some nights, I sat on the living room floor eating cold food, wondering if this was all my life would ever be.
We never had extra money. My clothes came from thrift stores or donations. I repaired, resized, reused.
Sewing became my quiet escape. Even when exhausted, my hands remembered how to create.
But creating something for myself felt wrong.
I told myself it was selfish.
My ex had strong opinions, even from a distance. No bright colors. No white. No pink.
According to him, those colors weren’t meant for women my age.
So I faded into the background. Neutral shades. Invisible choices.
I stopped really seeing myself in the mirror.
Years passed. Wells grew into a good man. He graduated, found steady work, and married a woman named Catalina.
I thought I could finally rest.
Then something unexpected happened—starting with a watermelon.
