I met Damon in our early 20s. We were broke and hungry for success. Back then, he made me feel like the world would make space for us, just because we were in love.
Damon proposed under an oak tree on campus. It wasn’t grand; it was just him, down on one knee with a ring box trembling in his hand. “Rhea, you’re it for me, love. You always have been,” he said. I was 25, juggling student loan debt and a fragile career. Damon had a job, a crooked smile, and a mother who already hated me. I thought love would be enough.
When our son, Mark, was born, something inside Damon began to dim. At first, I told myself it was just exhaustion—that parenthood tested everyone. But slowly, his behavior worsened.
“I’m heading out with the guys, Rhea. Be back soon,” became his constant refrain. He was distant and detached. “Can’t you handle bedtime tonight?” he’d say. “You’re better at that soft stuff anyway.” He started disappearing on weekends too—always a friend’s birthday, a fishing trip, or a “work retreat.”
I stayed home, keeping the roof over our heads, handling the work, bills, dishes, school runs, fevers, and scraped knees. And there was Carmen, Damon’s mother. She looked at me like I’d contaminated her bloodline. She never used my son’s name, calling him only “the boy” or “your kid.” It was as though saying his name would make him real to her.
Still, I stayed for Mark. He deserved a whole home.
Until the day I came home early and everything changed.
I wasn’t supposed to be home. A burst pipe at the office shut down the building, so I left and picked up Mark from school.
“Mama, can we bake cookies?” he asked, as we walked. “The kind with chocolate chips?”
“We’ll see what we have in the pantry,” I smiled. “Maybe you can help me this time.”
We walked into the house together. Everything felt strangely quiet. The walls seemed to hold their breath.
Then I saw her.
Not Carmen. A woman I didn’t recognize, tangled in our bedsheets. Her blouse was crumpled on the floor. Damon’s hand rested on her waist.
He looked up, startled. Not guilty, just annoyed about being disturbed.
“Oh, you’re home early, Rhea,” he said.
I didn’t scream or ask who she was. I just turned and went to Mark’s bedroom. I crouched quickly.
“Hey, baby,” I said, my voice too calm for the panic in my chest. “Let’s go and get some ice cream, right now! We’ll make cookies later.”
“But Mama, it’s cold outside,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Shouldn’t we stay home?”
“Hot chocolate too, then,” I said, helping him into his jacket. “Actually, let’s go to Grandma’s house! I bet she’ll make us cookies or something just as good!”
I drove him straight to my mother’s. I didn’t tell her everything, just that my heart was broken and Mark couldn’t know anything yet.
Once Mark was asleep on her couch, I drove back to the house alone. Damon and the woman were gone. I packed the essentials quietly: clothes, Mark’s schoolbag, medication, and one photo of the three of us at the beach before things got ugly. I gave the dog, Jasper, treats and topped up his bowls, then headed out.
Back at my mother’s, my phone buzzed.
“I’m taking the dog, Rhea. You’ve got the kid.”
“What a piece of work,” I muttered, reading the text from Damon.
Moments later, another message popped up on the thread.
“At least the dog’s trained.”
That one was from Carmen. My mother-in-law. I hadn’t realized it was a group chat until Carmen chimed in. If there was one thing I could count on Damon for, it was having his mother right there, behind him.
Something inside me cracked then. It was a clean split, showing me exactly how I needed to play this game.
By morning, I had filed for divorce and full custody of Mark.
Court day arrived like a heavy storm cloud. I wore a simple navy blouse and black slacks, trying to look composed even though I felt my bones shaking.
Judge Ramsey presided, stone-faced. His voice was firm. There was no room for games with him.
“Rhea is emotionally unpredictable, Judge,” Carmen testified later, after the preliminary parenting evaluations. “And my grandson always seemed nervous about her. It’s like he’s instructed to do whatever she says… She’s probably blackmailing the child.”
I stayed still, barely breathing. Damon dabbed his eyes, a perfectly staged performance.
Then Mark, my seven-year-old son, raised his hand nervously.
“Yes, young man?” Judge Ramsey tilted his head slightly. “I was going to ask you for your input later… but what do you have to say, son?”
“May I read what my Dad sent me yesterday?”
Curtis, Damon’s lawyer, leaned into Damon, whispering fast. Carmen shifted in her seat, eyes wide.
“Order,” the judge held up his hand. “Go ahead, son. But where did he send this message?”
“My tablet, Judge. It’s for school but Mom lets me have screentime. My Dad sent me a message on it.”
Mark unfolded a small slip of paper from his pocket. My heart dropped.
“Mark,” he read, reciting from his copy. “You need to tell the judge you want to live with me and Grandma, or I’ll make sure Mom loses the house. She’ll live on the street, buddy.”
Silence swallowed the room whole.
Judge Ramsey leaned forward, slowly removing his glasses. “May I see that note?” he asked.
Mark nodded, walked up the bench, and handed the slip of paper to the bailiff. “I copied it from my tablet, Judge. But the tablet is in the car. I hid it under the seat so Mom wouldn’t ask about it.”
The judge read Mark’s handwriting silently. His jaw tightened.
“Would you like to explain this?” he asked Damon. “Is this the message that you sent your son?”
Damon shifted, trying to speak. “Yes, Judge. It was a misunderstanding. I was just… scared of losing him.”
“You told me that you didn’t want custody! You said you wanted your freedom and the dog! Damon, you said you were done with us!” I shouted.
“Counsellor, calm your client,” Judge Ramsey told my lawyer.
“I changed my mind, Judge,” Damon said. “I love my son. I love him so much.” But I knew. This was punishment. This was about getting back at me. It had nothing to do with loving our son.
That’s when Simone stood up in the gallery. Damon’s sister. She walked toward the stand, hesitation in every step. Her eyes flicked to me, like an apology.
Curtis called her as a character witness, clearly confident she would sway the odds. He had no idea what was coming.
Simone raised her right hand, took the oath, and sat down. She smoothed her pants with shaking fingers.
“I can’t do this,” she said, looking at her lap. “My brother begged me to lie. He said that he didn’t want custody of Mark… he just wanted to teach Rhea a lesson. He said that if he got Mark, Rhea would have to pay him.”
Damon’s hands flew to his face. Carmen let out a loud gasp. “Simone!” she hissed, scandalized.
But it was too late.
Judge Ramsey lifted his gavel.
“Custody goes to the mother. The house remains hers. Child support is set according to the father’s income. That’s final.”
Gavel slam. Silence.
And then it was over. I got 70% of the assets. I got payments that made Damon flinch each month. And yes, Jasper stayed with us, too.
Damon walked into that courtroom expecting to destroy me. He left owing me for every piece he tried to take.
