A few months after the divorce became final, Mason and I moved into a three-bedroom apartment.
His room was the first one we finished.
The second bedroom became mine.
And the third became something I had wanted for years.
A real studio.
Not one corner of the dining room.
Not canvases stacked behind the couch.
A room with shelves for paint, a wide table, good lighting, and a door I could close.
The first night after I finished setting it up, I stood in the middle of that room and cried.
Not because I missed Tyler.
I cried because I finally understood how much of myself I had folded into our marriage without noticing.
Tyler had not just cheated.
He had built a second future before he dared to end the first one.
And somehow he expected me to stand politely at the edge of it.
I don’t hate him anymore.
