There’s always a beginning, a middle, and an end. The problem is nobody ever tells you where you are in the story. I thought I was at the happily-ever-after part.
After years of heartbreak, failed treatments, and watching everyone around me build the families they wanted, I was finally getting mine. My husband and I were welcoming a baby girl.
Not in the most traditional way, but she was ours. And the woman carrying her? A godsend. At least, that’s what I thought.
For me, she was the answer to prayers I’d spent years whispering into the dark. For my husband? She was the woman he slept with.
Now I’m standing in the wreckage of the life I thought I had, trying to decide what comes next. I could blow up my marriage. Or I could wait. Plan. Survive.
Because sometimes the end of one story is really the beginning of another. One that leads me back to Texas. Back to the family I left behind. And back to the only man I’ve never truly forgotten.
Maybe happily ever after wasn’t where I thought it was. Maybe I’ve just been taking the long way home.
