Raising triplets single-handedly is no small feateach day a whirlwind of exhaustion, frayed nerves, and stolen moments of joy. Ive learned to soothe one childs tears while another clambers onto my lap, to juggle maths homework and spaghetti stains, to celebrate every scraped knee or gold-star spelling test as though it were a grand victory. But behind the laughter of my three little ones lurked the quiet ache of a mother doing it all alone, without so much as a word of thanks.
When I heard hed moved onnew life, new wife, a newborn of his ownanger and resolve twisted in my chest like a storm. Id poured everything into our children, while the life wed built together seemed to matter only to me.
Then the invitation arrived. His babys christening. A thinly veiled trap, meant to parade my loneliness in front of his smug new circle. He expected me to slink in, brittle and exposed.
I arrived radiant.
The good surprise for my ex-husband wasnt just meit was our triplets, bright-eyed and chattering, trailing behind me like ducklings. The room of whispering guests fell silent, then buzzed. My childrenthe ones hed barely glanced at in yearslit up the stiff, pastel-decked hall with their giggles.
His face drained of colour. Every cruel whisper hed hoped would chip at me now ricocheted back. I didnt need words. The proof of my resilience stood beside me, swinging their little legs off chairs and sneaking frosting from the cake.
As I met his stare, my smile was a blade. Not broken. Not beaten. Unshakable.
