I could turn myself into a shrine of pain and let what Daniel had done define the shape of the rest of my life.
Or I could begin.
Not heal. That word was far too ambitious for the morning after betrayal.
I just wanted to start over.
So I made three calls.
First to my sister, Lena.
She picked up on the second ring and said, “Why are you calling this early?”
By the time I said, “He cheated,” she was already grabbing her keys.
Second, I called my lawyer.
Patricia listened without interrupting and then said, “Do not speak to him again until we’ve gone over what you want.”
Third, I reached out to a therapist.
I found her through a referral and left a voice message, so cracked with grief I almost hung up halfway through. But I didn’t.
I was determined to see this through.
Together we packed Daniel’s things.
