When our kids got sick days before our long-awaited beach vacation, I assumed Garrett would understand and stay home. I was wrong. He packed his bag, kissed the air, and left without looking back. “I need this,” he said—like I didn’t spend every day saving lives in the ER and cleaning up after him.

While he posted smug selfies and sipped cocktails, I nursed two vomiting kids alone. That week broke something in me. One night, as the kids finally slept, I walked into the garage, looked around at all his overpriced toys—his fishing gear, his barely-used boat—and started taking photos. By the weekend, they were sold, and I had enough money for a real vacation.

“Surprise, kids!” I said a few days later. We flew to a resort, just us. As they splashed in the pool, I met another single mom and felt seen for the first time in years. When Garrett finally called, raging about his missing things, I calmly told him the truth. Then I told him something else: I wanted a divorce.

That night, as the kids slept soundly, I stood on the balcony and let the ocean air fill my lungs. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew one thing—my happiness was no longer on hold. Garrett might try to fight, but I had finally found my voice. And I wasn’t going back.