Scrolling through his Instagram, I saw pictures of them at five-star restaurants, on trips to Paris—living the lavish life she apparently always wanted.

Meanwhile, my girls left empty spaces in their crayon drawings, hoping their mother would return.

Chemo was brutal. Twelve rounds, endless vomiting, weakness, and weight loss. But I refused to give up—my daughters needed me.

That year was pure hell, but I fought through it. And eventually, after radiotherapy and countless treatments, I heard the words I had been praying for: cancer-free.

Two years later, fate brought Melissa back into my life—at a gas station of all places.

“Melissa, is that you?” I asked, stepping out of my car.

She looked worn out, fragile, and broken—nothing like the confident woman who once left me and our daughters behind.

She tried to avoid me but then asked to talk. At a nearby park, she begged to reconnect with our daughters.

Her dream life had crumbled. Marco, the man she left us for, had been a fraud. He drained her financially and vanished, leaving her penniless and alone.

I saw the regret in her eyes. For a moment, I even felt sorry for her. But I had learned my lesson.

“No, Melissa,” I said firmly. “You abandoned them. They suffered, but now they’ve moved on. They’re finally happy.”

She cried, but I stood my ground.

Me and my girls deserved better.