there he was—standing on my doorstep with a cheap bouquet and that familiar sheepish grin. “I made a mistake,” he said. “I want to come home.” I didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. I simply stepped aside and let him talk. He rambled about nostalgia, about missing the kids, about realizing what he’d lost. When he finished, I handed him a folder—neatly organized with receipts,

overdue child support, and legal documents detailing every obligation he’d abandoned. “You thought you could just walk back into the life you walked out on,” I said. “But I’m not the same woman you left behind. I’m stronger now. Wiser. And no longer waiting.” He stood there, stunned. I closed the door gently but firmly. As I turned, I glanced down at the bouquet he’d left on the counter—already wilting. Without a second thought, I tossed it in the compost bin. Right where it belonged.