I used to think the end of my marriage would arrive with noise—with arguments, slammed doors, or at least explanations that made sense.

Instead, it ended quietly. One day my husband was there, and the next day he simply wasn’t. No long conversations. No attempt to repair what we had built. Just absence.

I was left with two children and a life that suddenly depended entirely on me.
Those early years were unforgiving. Every decision mattered. Every dollar, every hour of sleep, every …