Two months ago, he proposed. The vintage ring he gave me felt thoughtful and personal, and when he suggested moving in together, it made sense. We kept our house so Ember wouldn’t have to adjust to a new place, and for a few weeks, life felt perfect.
Then one afternoon, I came home to find Ember sobbing on the couch, her face blotchy from crying. Through hiccupped breaths, she told me Stan had thrown all her toys in the trash — specifically the ones her dad had given her. My stomach knotted as I went outside. There they were, buried under coffee grounds, spaghetti sauce, and wilted salad. Her teddy bear, Mr. Buttons, was stained red; her Barbie dream house was broken at the bottom of the bin.
