My husband abandoned me and our six children for a woman who stroked his ego by calling him “sweetheart.” I didn’t chase him down the street or get on my knees to beg. But when the walls of his new life came crashing down with a force louder than any words I could have shouted, I was there to see the wreckage. I wasn’t there for revenge or out of some twisted sense of spite; I was there to stand in my own truth and remind myself of my own value.
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The phone began vibrating against the granite kitchen counter just as I was scrubbing dried peanut butter off a stray plate.
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