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Tag: bible
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Before Jocelyn met Mitchell
Jocelyn’s Future Was Bright
Before him, I was a woman on fire. In my late twenties, I radiated confidence, my life a canvas of hard-earned triumphs. My net worth hovered near $100,000—a testament to my independence. I slipped into size 4 dresses with ease, my body a reflection of discipline and grace. I worked tirelessly but knew how to savor life’s joys—weekends with lifelong friends who felt like family, laughter shared with my devoted, hardworking parents and siblings. My world was full, vibrant, and mine. The only piece missing was someone to share it with, a man to call my own, to weave into the beautiful tapestry of my life.
But looking back, I see the moment everything shifted—the choices that rewrote my story. His name was John, and he was the heartbeat of my past. For four years, he was my safe harbor, a man whose kindness and stability wrapped around me like a warm embrace. He wasn’t perfect—there was a misstep, a foolish mistake that cracked the foundation of our love—but we rebuilt, stronger, together. John was the son of a close-knit family, fiercely loyal to his siblings, grounded in a world of love and trust. Our life together wasn’t a whirlwind of passion, but it was real, steady, a quiet promise of forever.
Then came the moment that still haunts me. After four years of dating, John planned a surprise that stole my breath. He’d bought a Tiffany’s engagement ring in New York, had it insured, and sent it to him with a heart full of hope. He knelt before me, his eyes shining with a love so pure it felt like a gift I didn’t deserve. “I can’t go through life without trying,” he said, his voice trembling with conviction. “I need to know if we’re meant to be.” His love was a tidal wave, overwhelming and unwavering. I wept on the plane ride home, my heart torn between the safety of his devotion and the fear of a future I couldn’t yet see.
John was the one who got away—the man who would’ve given me the world, who would’ve stood by me through every storm. But I turned away. I chose the thrill of the unknown, the bad boy whose electric presence set my pulse racing. He was all sparks and danger, promising excitement that felt like life itself. I said yes to him, to a marriage built on fleeting highs, blind to the pain that waited in the shadows.
Now, with the clarity of hindsight, I see my mistake. I mistook stability for stagnation, loyalty for lack of fire. I craved passion so fiercely that I traded a love that could’ve endured for one that burned me to ashes. If I could reach back through time, I’d grab that younger me by the shoulders and plead: Don’t confuse steady with boring. Don’t trade a partner for a thrill. But life offers no rewrites, only lessons carved deep into the soul.
This is my regret, my open wound: I let go of John, the man who saw me, who loved me without condition. And in his place, I chose a path that led to heartbreak, to a marriage that unraveled in betrayal. Yet, in the wreckage, I’ve learned the weight of my choices—and the strength it takes to carry them. This story, my story, is a whisper to every woman standing at a crossroads: Choose the love that holds you, not the one that consumes you. Because some losses, like John, linger forever, a quiet ache for the life that might have been.
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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.
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The Day After
Did yesterday really happen or was it a nightmare?
The morning after he blindsided me with his divorce filing, I woke with my son, Samuel, nestled in my arms, my heart heavy with confusion, unsure if the previous night’s devastation was real or a cruel nightmare. As I carried him from our bedroom to his bathroom to prepare for school, the house felt eerily empty. He was gone—already left for work, a rarity before 7:00 a.m. Swallowing my pain, I focused on Samuel, getting him ready and buckling him into the car for school. I kissed his forehead, told him I loved him, and wished him a great day, never letting a hint of the previous night’s heartbreak slip into my words. After dropping him off, I drove to Heather’s house, my chest tight with grief.
Heather greeted me with a warm, enveloping hug, but I could see the worry etched in her eyes, mirroring my own. She’d spent the night and morning tirelessly reaching out to friends who’d navigated divorces or worked in the school system, gathering advice and support. Guilt washed over me for burdening her, yet her presence was a lifeline. Over the phone, I poured out my need to escape with Samuel, to process this shattering news. With no family in Georgia, I longed for the comfort of loved ones. Easter was a week away, and I needed the embrace of those who knew me best. As more of Heather’s friends arrived, we called my sister, Charlene in New York. Without hesitation, she and her husband offered to buy roundtrip airfare for Samuel and me—a nine-day refuge to heal.
Heather sprang into action, packing a carry-on with snacks for Samuel and me, her care a quiet balm to my aching heart. My sister emailed the flight itinerary; we were leaving that afternoon. I reached out to Samuel’s teachers, explaining our family’s sudden fracture and our need to be with family out of state. His teacher, Ms. Farmer, reassured me that Samuel’s advanced standing meant no academic worries, but I insisted on homework to keep his mind engaged—school was my anchor, too. She promised a packet by pickup time.
At school, Ms. Farmer met me with a hug that nearly unraveled me. I explained we’d return in nine days, carefully planned to avoid state scrutiny, as I’d learned missing ten or more school days could trigger intervention. She nodded, sending a follow-up email to me and the school administrators, ensuring everyone was informed. When Samuel bounded down the hallway, surprised by the early pickup, he threw his arms around me in a tight, joyful hug. As we walked hand-in-hand to the car, he asked, “Where are we going?” I smiled through my pain, saying, “Guess where?” His eyes lit up. “To see my cousins?” he guessed, and I exclaimed, “Yes! How did you know?” In his car seat, Samuel wiggled in a gleeful dance, shouting, “Yes!” and beaming, “Mom, you always have the best surprises!”
His joy pierced my heart. Beneath my smile, I was crumbling, uncertain of what lay ahead for us. Yet I knew, with unshakable certainty, that we both needed to be surrounded by love, enveloped by family who would lift us up in this storm. This trip wasn’t just an escape—it was a lifeline to hope, for Samuel and for me. This decision, though legally permissible, would be used against me in court by Mitchell as a form of punishment.
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April 11th
The Day Life Changed Forever
Life has been a vibrant tapestry of love and devotion, woven around my precious boy, Samuel. As a mother, my heart beats for creating moments that spark joy in his eyes and nurture his boundless spirit. Every Monday after school, I whisk him to drum lessons, where his small hands tap out rhythms that fill my soul with pride. Tuesdays and Thursdays are for swim classes, watching him glide through the water, growing stronger with every stroke, my cheers echoing his courage. Fridays bring soccer practice, and Saturdays are for his games, where I stand on the sidelines, voice ringing with love, celebrating every kick and grin. Our cherished Build and Grow workshops at Lowe’s and Home Depot have been sacred since he was tiny—hammering side by side, crafting toys that become keepsakes, our laughter mingling with the scent of fresh wood, building memories as much as projects.
Recently, I joined Mitchell and Samuel on their weekly Walmart grocery run, my heart set on surprising my little one. I gently coaxed Mitchell to grab a few extras so I could create a heartfelt Easter basket for Samuel—those quirky Rabbids Invasion characters he loves tucked among treasures. Days later, I scoured the dollar store, arms full of chocolates, silly string, and speckled malt balls shaped like Easter eggs, each chosen with care to light up his face. From the attic, I brought down our beloved Easter decorations: the “Welcome Spring” sign, cheerful “Happy Spring” banners, a vibrant front-door wreath, and those towering boy and girl bunny statues that greet us like old friends. Every year for the past four or five, I’ve snapped photos of Samuel beside them, his growth a tender marker of time, each picture a thread in our family’s story that tugs at my heart.
But as I poured love into bringing Easter’s warmth into our home—hanging garlands with care, envisioning Samuel’s giggles during the egg hunt—a devastating, unforeseen storm crashed over us, sparked by a single conversation with Mitchell.
A Shattered Sanctuary
The familiar creak of the front door greeted Mitchell as he stepped into their home, the weight of the day clinging to him like a shadow. Hours earlier, over a quiet lunch at Wendy’s off Exit 12, he had poured out his fears to Jocelyn—his job teetering on the edge, the gnawing uncertainty of their future. She listened, her steady gaze offering the comfort he so desperately needed. For a moment, the world felt manageable.
That evening, the rhythm of their life seemed to hum along as always. Jocelyn prepared dinner, the clatter of plates mingling with their son Samuel’s laughter as the seven-year-old recounted his day. After dinner, she ran a bath for him, the familiar ritual unfolding with tender care. Tucking him into bed, she curled up beside him, her voice soft and warm as she read his favorite stories, each word weaving a cocoon of safety around them. Downstairs, Mitchell retreated to his office, the glow of his laptop or the frenetic sounds of his Xbox filling the space where connection might have been.
When Samuel’s breathing deepened into sleep, Jocelyn slipped into the living room, sinking into the couch as the late-night news flickered on. The quiet hum of routine was shattered when Mitchell appeared at the top of the stairs, his voice cutting through the stillness. “Are you staying up for a while or going to bed?” he asked, his tone strangely heavy.
“I don’t know. Why?” she replied, a flicker of unease stirring in her chest.
He made air quotes with his fingers, his face unreadable. “We have to have our bad talk.” Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the hall, the sound of the shower hissing to life moments later.
Jocelyn’s heart lurched. Bad talk? The words echoed, sharp and ominous. She rose, switched off the TV, and drifted downstairs to the garage, her sanctuary for moments like this. Lighting a cigarette, she paced the cold concrete floor, her mind spiraling. Was it his job? Had he missed his sales targets, plunging them into financial ruin? Or worse—would they have to cancel their dream trip to Europe, the one meant to celebrate their 10th wedding anniversary? Smoke curled around her as she lit another cigarette, her anxiety tightening its grip with every drag.
Twenty minutes later, the garage door creaked open. Mitchell stood there, his silhouette stark against the dim light. Jocelyn sat frozen in a chair, her eyes hollow, bracing for whatever was coming. His words came slowly, each one a stone dropped into the silence. “I saw a mediator… didn’t really know what they did,” he muttered. “I spoke to some attorneys…”
Her voice trembled, cutting him off. “Mediators? For what?”
He threw his hands up, frustration spilling over. “I filed for divorce!”
The words struck her like a brutal fist, each syllable a shard of glass piercing her chest, stealing her breath. Her body crumpled into the chair, limbs leaden, as if the air itself had turned to stone. Tears streamed down her face, silent rivers burning trails of raw grief. Her blood seemed to drain, pooling heavy and cold at her feet, leaving her dizzy, unmoored—too weak to stand, too shattered to move. Her mind roared with chaos, a storm of disbelief and rage, but her body betrayed her, frozen in a silent scream. Time stretched, each second an eternity of anguish, until she finally rose, legs trembling as if they might collapse. Her voice, fragile yet laced with venom, cracked the air: “You did what?”
“I filed for divorce,” he repeated, his tone icy, final.
Her world tilted. “For what? For what reason? Why? Are you kidding me?” Her heart thundered, her body trembling as if it might shatter. She stared at the man she’d loved, the father of her child, the one she’d built a life with. Every vow, every sacrifice, every moment of trust crumbled in an instant.
Then, a fierce, primal instinct surged within her—her son. She had to protect Samuel. This man, this stranger standing before her, was not the Mitchell who had held her hand at lunch, who had kissed her with warmth just hours ago. He was not the man who had sworn never to repeat the pain of his own fractured childhood.
Shaking, she bolted upstairs to Samuel’s room. With trembling hands, she gently woke him, her voice soft despite the storm raging inside her. “Hey, buddy, let’s do something different. How about ice cream?”
His sleepy eyes lit up, pure and untainted, a beacon in her darkness. “Ice cream?” he chirped, his joy cutting through her pain like a fragile thread of hope. For a moment, she clung to it, desperate to shield him from the chaos.
But as she led him toward the door, Mitchell appeared, leaning against the frame, his eyes hard with defiance. “You can’t go,” he said coldly. “You’ll get arrested if you leave.”
Her heart stuttered. Samuel’s small voice broke the tension. “Arrested? For what, Mommy?”
“It’s not true,” she said quickly, forcing a smile to steady him. “We’re just going for a little bit. We’ll be back soon.”
Mitchell stepped forward, blocking the doorway. “If you leave, you’ll get arrested,” he repeated, his voice a low threat. The words didn’t make sense, but their weight pressed against her.
“Move,” she demanded, her voice sharp with resolve. “We’re going for ice cream. We’ll be back.” She wouldn’t let him cage her—not now, not ever.
Samuel’s eyes darted between them, wide and confused. “What’s going on, Dad?” he asked, his voice trembling.
Mitchell’s response was a blade to her heart. “We’re getting a divorce, son.”
The words landed like a bomb, and Samuel’s sobs filled the room, raw and heartbreaking. Jocelyn pulled him close, her own tears falling as she whispered, “It’s okay, baby. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”
In the garage, she buckled Samuel into his car seat, her hands shaking but her resolve ironclad. Mitchell appeared at the passenger side, yanking open the back door. “Get out,” he ordered Samuel.
Time slowed. Samuel’s small face, etched with confusion and pain, turned from his father to his mother. His tiny hand gripped the door handle, and with a quiet, deliberate motion, he pulled it shut. The soft click echoed like a declaration. Jocelyn’s heart swelled with pride and shattered all at once. She locked the doors and started the car, ignoring Mitchell’s furious shouts as she pulled out of the garage.
“Why are you getting a divorce, Mommy?” Samuel asked, his voice small and fragile.
“I don’t know, honey,” she choked out, the truth raw and unbearable. “I had no idea.”
With nowhere else to turn, she drove to her best friend Heather’s house, her heart pounding with fear that Mitchell—or even the police—might follow. Heather listened as Jocelyn poured out the night’s betrayal, her words tumbling over each other in a torrent of pain. Samuel sat quietly, his eyes distant, still processing a world turned upside down.
An hour later, Jocelyn called her father-in-law, clinging to a fleeting hope for answers. “Did you know he was planning this?” she asked, her voice tight with betrayal.
His response was cold, detached. “Return home.”
The words cut deeper than she expected. History was repeating itself—her father-in-law’s infidelity, his affair that had scarred Mitchell as a child, now mirrored in the son who had sworn never to follow in those footsteps. The sins of the father had become her reality, and she was left to pick up the pieces.
With no other choice, Jocelyn and Samuel returned to the house that no longer felt like home. That night, Samuel crawled into her bed, his small body trembling as he clung to her. She locked the door, fear and grief twisting together in her chest. Holding him close, she cried—soft, broken sobs that shook her to her core. Her tears fell until there were none left, her only solace the warmth of her son’s body, the last fragile thread of the life they’d known.
As sleep finally claimed her, Jocelyn held Samuel tightly, a desperate lifeline in a world that had crumbled beneath her. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but she knew one thing: she would protect her son, no matter the cost.