…”God, she was *so* needy after the divorce. I felt like I was suffocating. Honestly, leaving her was the best decision I ever made.”
Then my stepmom chuckled and added, **”She was always a little unstable. I mean, you can’t really blame her—she peaked in college and then just… unraveled.”**
They laughed. **They laughed.**
And I just stood there, holding a glass, heart pounding like I was ten years old again, overhearing something I shouldn’t.
All this time, I thought my mom was bitter. Petty. Overly sensitive.
But in that moment, I realized something:
**She wasn’t the one who ruined things.**
She was just trying to survive the aftermath.
They had built a narrative where she was broken, and they were the rescuers—taking me into their “normal” home while quietly tearing her apart behind closed doors. And I had *bought it.*
I went back upstairs and couldn’t sleep. The next morning, I drove to my mom’s. I hadn’t been there in months.
She looked surprised. I just hugged her. For a long time.
And then I told her everything.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t say, “I told you so.” She just nodded like… she’d known. She had always known.
Four days before the wedding, I called my dad and told him he was no longer welcome. Not at the ceremony, not at the dinner, not in the photos.
He shouted. Accused me of overreacting. Said I was letting “old bitterness” ruin my day.
But here’s the thing: **it wasn’t *my* bitterness.**
It was *his.*
And I wasn’t going to carry it into the next chapter of my life.
**My mom walked me down the aisle.**
She was glowing, laughing, alive in a way I hadn’t seen in years.
And when people asked where my dad was, I simply said, **“Home, where he belongs.”**
