That foundation cracked two years ago when Mom discovered Dad was having an affair. Not just a fling, but a full-blown relationship with a woman named Vanessa. She was younger, glamorous in a showy sort of way, the type who thrived on attention.

I’ll never forget the night Mom found out. She sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, while Dad paced the floor, trying to justify himself. “It just happened,” he said, as if that explained anything.

The divorce came fast after that. He moved in with Vanessa, leaving us to pick up the pieces. Alex was only ten at the time, old enough to understand betrayal but too young to know how to process it. He went quiet, his jokes disappearing, his trust in Dad shattered.

I was sixteen, old enough to be angry, to resent every smile on Dad’s face when he picked us up for his weekend visits, pretending life hadn’t changed. Mom, for her part, held her head high, but I could see the cracks in her strength. She’d given her life to him, and he’d thrown it away.