She tried calling twice, but I didn’t answer.
I watched the video again — not to hurt myself, but to understand the depth of the disrespect. Every clip was another small truth unraveling.
“I own her life now,” she said, smirking. “She keeps everything so clean and so perfect. But perfection is boring and predictable, Dawn…
isn’t it? I mean, you wouldn’t cheat on your wife if perfection was everything. I make Cole laugh.
I make him breathe.”
I heard Cole laugh softly as the camera shook.
“Yes, he’s right here, Dawn. He says I feel like peace,” Vanessa said, laughing and leaning into the camera. “Isn’t that right, babe?”
Cole appeared beside her, his arm draped lazily across the back of the couch.
“She doesn’t have to know everything,” he mumbled, his voice softer.
“Lila always wants proof of everything… she’s obsessed with timelines. I can convince her that everything is in her head…
I hit pause.
My pulse pounded. I felt lightheaded. They hadn’t just gone behind my back — they’d studied me.
And they counted on me being too trusting to notice the cracks.
“Calm down, Lila,” I told myself. “You have to be calm for the baby.”
That night, I pulled out a new notebook and scrawled across the first page:
“You will not forget.”
I documented everything: from my business trips to the odd charges on our joint card. I counted the bottles of wine that vanished.
It wasn’t for a court case or anything like that — this was for me, a ledger of clarity.
As my pregnancy took over, I stopped flinching at the silence. I grew to find peace in the silence. And even Blake stopped watching the door.
Three months later, Cole was served the divorce papers outside a bar that he frequented.
“You didn’t have to go this far, Lila,” he said when he called me that night.
“Oh, I haven’t even started,” I said, my tone calm and collected.
After the divorce papers were sent, Cole sent me four texts and left two voicemails.
All of them were scattered, angry, and desperate.
I didn’t respond.
My lawyer said he was stunned, that he thought I’d “cool off” eventually.
But I didn’t cool off.
I kept journaling — not just what they did, but what I was building. I wrote about repainting the bedroom. I packed away the robe Vanessa wore and donated the couch where they sat.
Nothing in my home would carry their scent.
I went to doctors’ appointments alone.
I sat through a birthing class next to a couple who kept whispering sweet things to each other. It hurt at first, but then I felt something stronger.
Peace.
One night, the baby kicked for the first time. I sat on the edge of the bed and cried into my hands — not because I was scared, but because I finally understood.
This child was mine. Entirely mine.
“Let me be a part of it, Lila. I made a mistake.Continue reading…
