Our savings and other marital assets were divided too.
At first, I worried about money.
I wasn’t traditionally employed.
I was an artist.
For years, people had treated that like a hobby simply because I worked from home.
It wasn’t.
I sold original paintings.
Accepted commissions.
Licensed several designs.
And quietly saved and invested part of everything I earned.
I wasn’t wealthy.
But I wasn’t helpless either.
Mason lived primarily with me.
Tyler received regular parenting time, including overnight visits once Mason became comfortable enough.
I never tried to keep them apart.
Mason loved his father.
He was also furious with him.
Both things could be true.
So I learned how to be civil.
Laila and I will never be friends.
I doubt we’ll ever like each other.
But she became part of Mason’s life because his father chose to build a future with her.
And because Mason now had a half-sibling.
I refused to make my son carry adult resentment on my behalf.
A few months after the divorce became final, Mason and I moved into a three-bedroom apartment.
His room was the first one we finished.
The second became mine.
And the third became something I had wanted for years.
A real art studio.
Not a corner of the dining room.
Not canvases hidden behind the couch.
A real room.
Shelves for my paints.
A large worktable.
Good lighting.
A door I could close.
The first night after I finished setting it up, I stood in the middle of that room and cried.
Not because I missed Tyler.
