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After a night of little sleep, exhausted by the never-ending responsibilities of motherhood, I managed to muster enough energy to bake homemade pizzas with the children.
They were ecstatic about the activity, eager to consume their masterpieces for dinner. I put Dylan down for a nap just as dinnertime neared, expecting for a quiet end to the day.
To my dismay, when I returned to the kitchen, I found the pizzas gone. George and his mother were in the lounge, nonchalantly enjoying the last slices.
My exhaustion turned to anger, and I confronted them loudly, asking why they had eaten the children’s dinner. Their shocked faces only increased my frustration. George tried to calm me, but it was too late; I was too upset to listen.
I retreated to our bedroom, slammed the door, and broke down. Why was I the only one trying? Why couldn’t they see how hard I was struggling? Lily’s soft knock on the door pulled me from my despair. “Mommy, where is our pizza?” she asked innocently.
That moment crystallized my resolve. I had to stand up for my children and myself. After reassuring Lily, I confronted George and my mother-in-law again. They attempted to justify their actions by implying concern about my weight. That was the last straw.
“Get out, both of you,” I said calmly, my voice firm. They left, and George spent the night at his mother’s house. The relief I felt after they left was palpable.
I ordered pizza for the kids and myself, and as we ate, I made my decision. The next morning, I asked my sister to watch the kids while I filed for divorce. I placed the divorce papers in an empty pizza box on the coffee table for George to discover.
After I informed my parents about the issue, they gave unequivocal support. Staying with them helped me to focus on my recovery and future plans. Within a short time, I regained my strength and was ready to tackle anything came my way.
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