After a grueling twelve-hour shift, I came home to chaos: my kids running wild and my husband, Garrett, lounging on the couch with a beer, completely uninterested in helping. “Did you feed the kids?” I asked. “Chips,” he shrugged.

The next day, our planned family vacation was derailed when our kids fell ill. “I’m still going,” Garrett declared, packing for his trip while I stayed behind to care for the kids. The next week was miserable. Garrett sent smug beach selfies while I dealt with two sick kids.

By Friday, I’d had enough. I sold Garrett’s precious fishing gear and boat, using the money for a surprise vacation with the kids. When we arrived at the resort, I felt lighter than I had in years. I met Tessa, another mom, who listened as I vented about Garrett’s selfishness.

That night, Garrett called, furious about his missing possessions. “I sold them,” I said, calmly. “I’m done with you, Garrett.” I told him I wanted a divorce.

The next day, I spoke to Zach, who asked if we were getting divorced. “I heard you on the phone,” he said. “You seem happier here without him.” I hugged him tight, relieved that he understood.

As I watched the ocean that night, I felt a sense of freedom I hadn’t in years. I didn’t know what the future held, but I was ready to face it.