He transferred to another branch of the company within two weeks and blocked Sandra's number. Her professional reputation suffered as well. Although I never actively spread the story, the truth has a way of emerging. Her supervisor called me for my side of the story after Sandra began missing work and showing signs of emotional distress.
I was factual but comprehensive in my explanation. She was asked to resign shortly thereafter. The children adjusted better than I had feared. The therapy sessions helped, as did my steady presence and honesty.
I answered their questions as age-appropriately as possible, never vilifying their mother, but never lying about why our family had changed. "Did Mom stop loving you?" Emma asked one night as I tucked her in. "I think Mom and I forgot how to love each other properly," I said carefully. "Sometimes that happens with grown-ups."
"But it doesn't change how much we both love you and Tyler." Sandra's visitation rights were limited and supervised, a consequence of the evidence showing her prioritizing her affair over the children's needs. She fought this initially, hiring a new attorney and filing motions to amend the custody agreement. But each attempt failed as more evidence came to light.
Missed parent-teacher conferences while she was with Mark. An incident where Tyler had fallen and needed stitches and she couldn't be reached because she was at a hotel. Text messages dismissing the children's activities as boring obligations. Her parents, who had once welcomed me warmly into their family, reached out about six months after the divorce was finalized.
Sandra's father, a retired judge, asked to meet for coffee. "I want you to know," he said, his voice heavy with disappointment, "that we raised her better than this. What she did to you, it's unforgivable." "I'm just focused on moving forward," I told him.
"The kids need stability now." "You'll always be family to us," he insisted. "Sandra's choices don't change that." I sold the colonial house.
Too many memories, too much space for just the three of us most of the time. I bought a modern condo closer to the children's school. It had a pool and a playground that they loved, and enough bedrooms for everyone to have their own space. It became our fresh start, a place untainted by betrayal.
Sandra tried various approaches to get back into my life. Tearful phone calls, handwritten letters. Once, she showed up at the condo unannounced, looking thin and desperate. "Five minutes?" she begged through the intercom.
"Just give me five minutes." I didn't buzz her in. Instead, I sent a text. "Any communication needs to go through Barbara."