Atlanta to New York

A Journey Through Heartache

The drive home from Samuel’s school was a blur, my heart pounding as I gripped the steering wheel. I called Susan, my next-door neighbor, my voice trembling as I shared the shattering news. We weren’t close, but our shared driveway made her a reluctant confidante. Her shock mirrored mine, her voice heavy with remorse. “I’ll keep an eye on the house,” she promised, offering to call if she saw him pull into the driveway while Samuel and I scrambled to pack.

Stepping into my home, it felt hollow, a fragile shell stripped of safety. The walls that once held laughter now echoed betrayal. Samuel and I moved quickly—clothes, his Easter outfits, a few cherished toys he clutched tightly. Neighbors confirmed the coast was clear, and we slipped out through the garage, bound for Atlanta’s airport, hearts racing with urgency and fear.

At the airport, we parked, shuttled, and checked in, my hand tightly holding Samuel’s as he chattered with excitement, oblivious to the storm inside me. I forced a smile, determined to shield him from my unraveling world. But the universe tested us further—our flight delayed once, then again, stretching four agonizing hours. Hunger gnawed at us; Samuel had devoured the snacks Heather packed. Spotting a Starbucks, his eyes lit up at the glass display of sandwiches and pastries. He couldn’t choose, his small face glowing with indecision. I ordered a banana nut muffin and coffee for myself, a sandwich, muffin, and juice for him.

Then, the blow: my credit card was declined. I asked the barista to try again, certain it was a mistake. Declined again. I switched cards—declined. Tears burned my eyes as the truth hit me like a freight train: Mitchell had done this. A third card failed, and I broke, tears streaming as I stood humiliated before the young barista. Through my sobs, I explained to her, a stranger, that my husband had filed for divorce the day before, that we were fleeing to family, and that he’d canceled my cards without warning. “Please, cancel the order,” I choked out, unable to meet her eyes. “I have no money.”

Her voice cut through my despair: “What do you want? It’s on me.” I wept harder at her kindness, begging, “Nothing for me, just something for my son, please.” She ignored my plea, slipping a small coffee into my hands alongside Samuel’s meal. I asked for a hug, and she came around the counter, wrapping me in a warmth that held me together when I was falling apart. “Everything will be okay,” she said with a smile so genuine it seared into my memory. I’ll never forget that Starbucks barista at Atlanta airport, a beacon of compassion in my darkest hour.

Our journey continued with a layover in St. Louis before landing in New York. Flight attendants, sensing our fragility, ensured Samuel and I sat together, a kind gentleman swapping seats without hesitation. Samuel, unprompted, made the sign of the cross as the plane took off, and I praised his quiet strength. We laughed through silly throat noises to ease the pressure in our ears, our smiles a fleeting shield against the pain.

Charlene welcomed us into her in-law suite, and that night, as Samuel slept peacefully, I watched him with a heart swollen with love and weighed by uncertainty. How would we rebuild? What future awaited us?

Morning brought joy—Samuel woke to his cousins’ hugs and laughter, a balm for our wounds. The kids filled the day with play: bikes, scooters, and an oversized Styrofoam plane that soared onto the roof, sparking giggles that echoed through the yard. Church services anchored us, and Easter Sunday’s waterfront brunch was a bittersweet reprieve. Photos captured our smiles, masking the ache in my soul. Samuel’s blue basket overflowed with egg hunt treasures—candy, toys, and a tooth fairy visit for another lost tooth, complete with notes and quarters. No matter the chaos, I vowed to preserve his childhood, to give him the magic I’d known.

But then, the unexpected: “Grandpa!” the kids shouted from the kitchen. My heart sank. Facing my father felt impossible—his warnings about Mitchell had been right, and the shame of my failure burned. My sister urged me forward, knowing I couldn’t hide forever. When I saw Dad, his “Oh, Jocelyn” and fierce embrace shattered my defenses. I sobbed like a child, apologizing endlessly. He never said, “I told you so.” Instead, he held me tighter, whispering, “You were too good for him. This isn’t your fault. He’ll regret it.” His love was a lifeline, unwavering and fierce.

Dad revealed Mitchell had called him at 8 a.m., coldly announcing our divorce to my 82-year-old father. Panicked, Dad had driven to the airport and flown to us, driven by a father’s profound love. I’ll never forget his sacrifice.

Those nine days in New York were a tapestry of healing—charades, drawing contests, tie-dye t-shirts, water balloon fights, zoo trips, trampoline bounces, and jacuzzi nights. Yet, as I lay awake beside Samuel, my mind churned. Why had Mitchell done this? I scoured old emails, finding one from September 5, 2013, that he’d read but never answered. Another, from April 15, 2013, documented his cruel words and their impact on Samuel, who’d whispered, “I wish I had a better dad.” The signs were there, subtle but real. An email from April 17, 2013, demanded I repay him for taxes—a cold shift that marked the beginning of his withdrawal. How had I let him erode my worth for so long?

Fr. James visited for an Easter blessing, and my sister arranged for me to speak with him privately. His words cut deep: “Mitchell’s not with God.” I’d always known it, but hearing it from a priest stung. Later, Samuel, ever curious, spoke with Fr. James and told him that he feels “mad and sad,” he admitted, then asked, “How do I stop my dad from drinking?” My heart broke. Fr. James gently explained it was Mitchell’s choice, urging Samuel to pray for him. My brave boy held up icons, determined to “fix” his dad.