Rooted in Ash

It took everything in me to trust again.

I had lived so long in a state of guard—shoulders tense, heart behind glass—that choosing softness felt like a kind of rebellion. I wanted this life to work. I wanted to believe that love could be safe. That he could be safe. That I could be the kind of woman who forgave the past and stepped fully into the now.

So when I said yes to her moving in, it wasn’t just an offer of space—it was a quiet declaration: I am choosing love. I am choosing trust. I am choosing us.

I go over those days in my mind again and again, trying to pinpoint the moment the ground began to crack. Sometimes I still forget for a second what happened, and when I remember, it hits me like a second betrayal. My mind might understand it now—but my chest still tightens. My breath still catches. My heart still doesn’t believe it.

I don’t remember exactly how the conversation started. Maybe she hinted at being overwhelmed. Maybe I asked, wanting to help. Or maybe I just saw too much of myself in her—the young mother, trying to hold everything together with duct tape and exhaustion.

What I do remember is the feeling. That pull inside me—the one that says: be the bigger person, do the right thing, prove you’re not hard anymore.

I wanted to show I could be different. That I could forgive. That I could offer stability. That I wasn’t just someone who remembered every betrayal like a scar.

I told her she and the baby could stay with us for a while. Just until she and my son could work through some issues. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It was quiet, practical, compassionate. And I meant it.

I wanted to help her, yes. I thought that by opening the door to her, I was also healing something in myself—and in Nick. Like I could make our family bond stronger.

He didn’t say much at first. Just nodded, shrugged—maybe said something like, “If that’s what you want.” I thought that was him deferring to me. Respecting my choice. Trusting me to manage it.

Now I wonder if that silence was something else