The Fire
You know the exact moment.
Maybe it was when she said the words you'd been dreading. Maybe it was when you came home to half-empty rooms. Maybe it was the morning you woke up in a different bed, in a different house, wondering how your entire life became unrecognizable overnight.
The fire consumed everything. Your marriage. Your daily routines. Your identity as a husband. The future you'd imagined. The family dinners. The shared bed. The certainty of coming home to the same house, the same people, the same life.
Gone.
If you're reading this, you're standing in the ashes. Everything you built-or thought you built-is rubble around your feet. The smoke is still clearing, and you can't see what's ahead. You might be numb. You might be drowning in rage. You might wake up every morning with a crushing weight on your chest, wondering how you're supposed to function when you can barely breathe.
I need you to know something right now, before we go any further:
This is not the end of your story.