That photo album meant everything to me.
When he cut me off from everyone—even my own kids—it became my only escape, my link to happier times. A life that felt so far away, like it belonged to someone else.
I used to run my fingers over the pages, tracing the faces of the people I loved, people I wasn’t allowed to see anymore. My kids, frozen in time, their smiles wide, their hands clutching mine. Proof that once, I was there. That I was their parent. That I mattered.
But now, even that feels tainted.
Because he found it.
He didn’t have to destroy it to ruin it. He just had to hold it in his hands, flick through the pages, smirk like it was nothing. Like they were nothing.
And now, when I look at it, all I hear is his voice. “They don’t need you.” “They’re better off.” “You think they even remember you?”
I try to hold onto the good, but it’s slipping away. Like I’m losing everything that ever mattered to me.
It’s not fair.
It’s just not fair.
