For fourteen years, I gave everything I had to our family.

I was the keeper of schedules, the band-aid applier, the midnight fever whisperer, the unpaid Uber driver. I juggled four kids, a teaching job, bills, meal plans, laundry, and a husband who, somewhere along the way, stopped noticing I existed outside of convenience.

I didn’t see the text coming. It arrived on a Tuesday — a beige, forgettable afternoon — while I was folding towels.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. You’re too tired. Too boring. Too much. I need more from life.”

Fourteen years — ended by a text message.

I stood in the middle of the laundry room, staring at the screen like it might blink itself away. My hands trembled. Somewhere down the hall, a child was asking for a snack. Life kept moving, even as mine cracked wide open.

By morning, Peter had posted a photo on Instagram. He and Elise — his colleague with the cherry-red lips and zero responsibilities — were clinking champagne glasses on a rooftop bar. The caption read, “Starting fresh.” I counted 322 likes before hurling my phone across the room.