Three months. That’s how old my son was when she filed for divorce.
We didn’t have a prior conversation. No forewarning.
Just woke up one day and saw the letter in the mail like I was a stranger who never showed up.
Like I wasn’t already buying diapers, formula, wipes. Dropping off cash. Helping her with groceries.
Even made sure she had food too, ’cause I know how hard those newborn nights can be.
I wasn’t perfect, but I was there.
And more than that, I was consistent.
But that wasn’t enough.
She wanted more.
Said it “wasn’t fair” that I still had my own apartment, that I was still living okay.
Like the goal was for me to struggle, too.
I’d ask if love for your child meant suffering equally?
So she took me to court.
Filed the paperwork.
Sat across from me like I hadn’t just paid the light bill last week.
And guess what?
Now she’s getting less than what I was giving before.
Way less.
All because she thought the system would do her better than I would.
She let bitterness speak louder than gratitude. Now we barely speak.
Everything’s through the state.
As for my son, he didn’t ask for any of this.
I would’ve kept giving.
Would’ve kept showing up.
But now it’s numbers and pay stubs and court orders.
You didn’t need to take me to court.
You just needed to be real.
But you got greedy.
And now everybody loses.
Was it worth it?