I’d built that first resort like a shrine to the version of us I kept trying to believe in: laminated schedules, color‑coded outfits, dolphin excursions, sunset photo slots labeled “Family Magic.” Mark arrived with his golf clubs and a shrug, already half gone. At baggage claim, he detonated it all with a lazy smile—three days with the guys, just an hour away, “you’ll be fine, babe.” I swallowed the scream burning my throat, let him roll his suitcase toward the exit, then quietly rolled us out of the life where my needs were a rounding error. A torn magazine page, a call to a place with peeling paint and pastel cottages, a cancellation fee that felt like a down payment on something dangerous: myself. By noon, the kids and I were gliding south over blue water, my phone buzzing in the cup holder, Linda’s name glowing, the old reflex to explain clawing at me as I pressed harder on the gas and just kept driv… Continues…