Part 2: The day I moved out of my home was the day she moved in. Four weeks postpartum, I finally reached my breaking point and left. That morning, he left for work, and I packed whatever I could fit into my car before driving away.
Later that week, I went back to gather the rest of my clothes, only to discover I had been locked out. He wouldn’t let me in. The reason? She was already in my house. After pleading with him, he eventually handed over my belongings. By then, the truth was clear, but I was too drained—too overwhelmed—to feel anything but numb.
That night, I cried endlessly, gripped by the fear of uncertainty. I had relied on him for so long that I didn’t even know where to begin. The next day, fueled by the need to survive, I started job hunting. He had removed me from the bank account, leaving me with nothing, forced to rebuild my life from scratch.
After two months, I landed a job as a receptionist at a local landscape company. It was a lifeline—proof that I could stand on my own. I worked my 40-hour weeks, but my depression weighed heavily on me, like an anchor I couldn’t lift. Each day blurred into the next: I would come home, eat, and sleep, operating on autopilot, barely aware of the world around me.
Looking back, it was a haze—a time when survival became the priority, and joy felt like a distant memory. But even in that fog, I was taking the first steps toward rebuilding my life, one hour at a time.