During the divorce, the husband declared, «Return everything I ever gave you and the kids!» A week laterthere were boxes onhis doorstep. When he opened them he was astounded…

Now stay out of my life. She slammed the phone down, her hands shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The weeks following Annabelle’s venomous phone call were a descent into darkness for Valerie.

Sleepless nights piled one atop another, her mind a relentless churn of memories and regrets. She’d try to sleep, but images of Leon’s smug grin, Annabelle’s predatory smile haunted her. The depression that had been simmering since the divorce surged, pulling her under like a riptide.

Simple tasks, making breakfast, driving the kids to school, felt insurmountable. She hid her unravelling from Steve and Rose as best she could, but the cracks were showing, and the weight of it all became too much. One morning, after a night of staring at the ceiling, Valerie broke.

She called Dwana, her voice trembling as she admitted she couldn’t cope. Dwana, ever the steady anchor, arranged for Valerie to check into a psychiatric hospital for a week of intensive care. The decision was agonising, leaving Steve and Rose with her sister felt like another failure, but Valerie knew she couldn’t be the mother they needed if she didn’t get help.

The hospital was a blur of therapy sessions, quiet rooms, and medication adjustments. She spoke little at first, the words trapped behind a wall of grief, but slowly, with the guidance of a kind therapist, she began to untangle the knots of pain, anger, and self-blame. By the time she was discharged, something had shifted.

The hospital hadn’t erased the hurt, but it had given her tools to face it. Valerie returned home with a fragile but growing sense of acceptance. She sat at her kitchen table one evening, a mug of chamomile tea warming her hands, and let the truth settle in her bones.

Leon’s betrayal, Annabelle’s cruelty, the loss of those material tokens. They were real, and they had wounded her deeply, but they didn’t define her. She wasn’t the broken ex-wife they’d tried to make her feel like.

She was Valerie Carter, mother of two incredible children, survivor of a marriage that had tested her strength, and a woman capable of forging a new path. She glanced at the living room where Steve was sprawled on the couch, sketching in a notebook, and Rose was practising a new dance routine, her laughter filling the air. Valerie’s heart ached, but it was a softer ache now, laced with love rather than despair.

She thought of the boxes she’d sent to Leon, the list she’d meticulously crafted, and Annabelle’s gloating voice. Those things belonged to a chapter that was closed. The story she was writing now, her story, Steve’s, Rose’s, was just beginning.

Mom, you okay? Steve called, glancing up from his sketch. His voice held a quiet concern, the kind only a teenager who’d seen too much could muster. Valerie smiled, a real one this time, small but steady.

Yeah, sweetheart, I’m getting there. Rose twirled over her ponytail bouncing. Wanna dance with me? It’s fun.

Valerie laughed, setting her mug down. You know I’m terrible at it, but sure. Show me your moves.

As she joined Rose, stumbling through the steps and laughing at her own clumsiness, Valerie felt a flicker of lightness she hadn’t known in months. Acceptance wasn’t a destination, she realised. It was a process, one she’d walk every day.

But for the first time in a long while, she believed she could. With her children by her side, she’d build a life not defined by what she’d lost, but by what she still had and what she’d yet to discover. Months later, as Valerie began to find her footing in her new life, snippets of news about Leon and Annabelle trickled in through a mutual friend, Kate.

One crisp autumn afternoon, over coffee at a cosy cafe, Kate leaned in, her voice low with gossip. You won’t believe this, Val. Annabelle had a baby, a boy.

Must have been pregnant during the divorce, but they kept it quiet. Valerie’s spoon paused mid-stir, her heart giving a small, unexpected lurch. She hadn’t thought of Annabelle in weeks, had been trying to focus on her own healing, on Steve and Rose.

The news shouldn’t have mattered, but it did, if only for a moment. A boy, she repeated softly, picturing a tiny face caught in the chaos of Annabelle’s world. Are they… married now? Kate shook her head, her lips pursing.

Nope, still not married. And from what I hear, things aren’t exactly rosy. She hesitated, then spilled the rest.

Annabelle, it seemed, was a far cry from the glamorous Victor she’d portrayed herself as. As a mother, she was neglectful, often leaving the baby unattended while she went on lavish shopping sprees, maxing out Leon’s credit cards. Kate’s sources, friends of friends mostly, whispered that Annabelle was on antidepressants, sleeping through much of the day, leaving the boy to cry in his crib.

Worse, she’d been heard yelling at him, her patience fraying at the demands of motherhood. It’s a mess, Kate said, her voice heavy with disapproval. That poor kid.

Valerie listened, her expression calm but her mind churning. She thought of the emerald necklace Annabelle had gloated about, the way she’d reveled in her supposed triumph. Now that image felt hollow, replaced by the reality of a struggling woman and a neglected child.

Valerie felt no satisfaction, only a quiet sadness for the baby, innocent and caught in the crossfire of his parents’ dysfunction. Time passed and Valerie focused on her own world, Rose’s dance recitals, Steve’s science fair projects, her own tentative steps back into painting, a passion she’d shelved during her marriage. But Kate’s updates kept coming, each one painting a bleaker picture.

One evening, as Valerie was folding laundry, her phone buzzed with Kate’s name. She answered, bracing herself. Val, you’re not going to believe this, Kate said, her voice urgent…