On my son’s first day of school, I wanted everything perfect. Lucas had been excited all summer—shirt ironed, backpack ready, eager to show his dad his classroom. But Travis had changed. He slept on the couch, came home late, barely spoke, and that morning promised he’d come “later.” Lucas was disappointed, but I stayed positive.
At school, Lucas immediately obeyed his teacher when she called him “Jamie.” He didn’t question it, and Travis, who finally appeared, acted like nothing was unusual. Later, instead of our planned ice cream celebration, Travis insisted on taking Lucas “to his mom’s.” Suspicious, I followed.
They drove to a house I didn’t know. Lucas ran straight to the backyard, and I saw her—barefoot, smiling, drink in hand. Travis kissed her. The worst part: he let Lucas answer to another boy’s name because the teacher had lost her child. He called it “a game,” but it was betrayal—of me, our son, and the family we had.
I walked away, not broken but stronger. I kept Lucas safe and rebuilt my life. Travis lost far more than he realized—his marriage, his home, and the family he took for granted.
