At 63, I’ve seen my share of highs and lows, but my kids, Miley and Ryan, have always been my strength since their father, Simon, left us. For my 63rd birthday, I sent them handwritten invitations, hoping for a joyful reunion. As hours passed with no sign of them, my heart sank. A delivery arrived—a cake with the eerie words, “WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID.” My hands shook, wondering who knew about Simon’s dark past, a secret I’d kept to protect my children.
Simon was lost to gambling and drinking, tangled with dangerous debts. One night, he left to “sort it out” and was found dead in a car crash at Miller’s Gorge, called an accident. I always wondered if it was more, but stayed silent for my kids. That night, Miley and Ryan arrived, upset, holding notes that read, “Ask your mother what happened to your father.” I shared the painful truth—his addictions, the threats, my doubts. They hugged me, saying, “We believe you, Mom.” A stranger delivered the cake, seen on our doorbell camera, but the police found no leads. Telling the truth healed us, showing me that secrets can hurt more than honesty.
Later in life, I faced another shock. I’d planned a Maui getaway for my 10th anniversary with my husband, Wade, saving all year. But days before, his mom, who never helped us, whined about needing a vacation. Wade suggested she take my ticket, calling me dramatic when I argued. Hurt but determined, I handed over my ticket—then quietly switched all reservations to his mom’s name, leaving Wade in a shabby motel near a loud construction zone.
Wade called, furious from his roach-filled room, but I said, “Don’t dismiss me again.” I escaped to Oregon’s wine country, relaxing with a book by the fire. When I returned, Wade apologized with flowers, admitting his mistake. I took time at my sister’s, rediscovering my own strength. Now, Wade’s in therapy, and we’re planning a new trip—just us, my rules. I learned to stand up for myself, set firm boundaries, and never let anyone make me feel small.
