Stan and I had been high school sweethearts, our teasing and study dates turning into a deep love that carried us through college and into marriage. We were inseparable, convinced our love could weather anything. But beneath the surface, cracks were forming, cracks I refused to see until the night he asked me to move across the country for a job.

“I can’t leave my parents,” I told him, and that was it. Stan filed for divorce, taking our savings and leaving me with just $173.42. Life was brutal at first—freelance work, long days, and caring for my aging parents—but slowly, I rebuilt, learning to stand on my own. Max, our rescue dog, was my faithful companion through it all.

For a year, I focused on my life, ignoring Stan’s social media and his new relationships. I had moved forward, even finding love again. Eight months ago, I married James, my divorce attorney, who had not only helped me legally but became my rock and partner.

Then, one rainy evening, a knock at the door shattered my calm. Stan stood there, soaked and hopeful, smiling that crooked smile I once adored. But the moment he stepped inside, he froze—Max happily greeted a tall, broad-shouldered man, my husband James.

Stan’s surprise quickly turned to shock as I reminded him of the past year: the hidden accounts, the court rulings, and the life James and I had built. His apologies, his promises to “make things right,” fell flat.

I handed him a business card for a nearby motel. “Try the chicken pot pie,” I said. “It tastes like regret.” As he walked away, I embraced James, breathing in the life I had fought for. I was exactly where I was supposed to be.