Hey, thanks for clicking. This is Buddy Saga. So, a man gets destroyed by the people that he loved most, but he doesn’t stay down. Stay to the end and let’s get into it.

The kitchen faucet was still running. That’s the detail I remember most clearly. Not the words she said, not the look on her face—just the faucet dripping into a sink full of dishes neither of us had touched for days.

“I need space, Warren. Just go stay somewhere else for a few days, please.”

Meredith wouldn’t look at me. She kept her hands braced against the counter like she needed it to hold her up.

“Space,” I repeated. “We’ve barely talked in two weeks, and you want more space?”

“I just need to think about us, about everything.”

“What’s there to think about? We have two kids, Meredith, a mortgage, fourteen years of marriage. You can’t just—”

“Please.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

I should have pushed. I should have demanded answers. I should have refused to leave my own house. But I didn’t, because some part of me—some exhausted, defeated part that had been watching our marriage crumble for months—just wanted it to stop.

The tension. The silence. The feeling that I was sleeping next to a stranger every night.

“Where are the kids?”

“At my mother’s. I told them we needed some grown-up time to figure things out.”

“And you decided this without asking me.”

“Warren, please. Just a few days. That’s all I’m asking.”

I stood there for a long moment, watching the water drip into the sink. Then I went upstairs, packed a bag, and left. I didn’t fight. I didn’t yell. I didn’t do anything.

That was my first mistake.

The call came at 11:47 p.m. I was at a Comfort Inn off Highway 36, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Jerome Walker—my next-door neighbor of eight years.

“Warren.” His voice was shaking. “Bro, you need to get home right now.”

“Jerome, what’s wrong?”

“There are police at your house. Like, a lot of them. Crime scene tape and everything.”

“What the hell is going on?” My blood went cold. “Where’s Meredith?”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t see her car, but there’s an ambulance. And, Warren… just get here.”

I was dressed and in my truck within sixty seconds. The drive from the hotel to my house was eleven miles. I made it in eight minutes.

What I saw when I pulled onto Maple Ridge Drive stopped my heart.

Three police cruisers. An ambulance with its lights still flashing. A white van with CRIME SCENE UNIT printed on the side. Yellow tape stretched across my front porch, bright against the darkness.

My home. My family’s home. A crime scene.

I slammed my truck into park and ran toward the house. An officer stepped in front of me before I reached the tape.

“Sir, I need you to stop right there.”

“This is my house. What’s happening? Where’s my wife? Where?”

“Sir, are you the homeowner?”

“Yes. Warren Caldwell. I live here. What’s going on?”

The officer’s face changed. Something shifted in his eyes—suspicion, maybe, or caution.

“Mr. Caldwell, I need you to come with me. There are some detectives who need to speak with you.”

“Not until you tell me what happened. Sir, where is my wife?”

Another voice cut through the chaos—female, calm, authoritative.

“Mr. Caldwell, I’m Detective Almarees Reyes. Please come with me. We have a lot to discuss.”

She was in her early fifties, gray streaking her dark hair, with the kind of face that seemed too much to be surprised by anything.

“Your wife is not here. We’re trying to locate her now.”

“Then why is there crime scene tape on my house? Why is there an ambulance?”

Detective Reyes studied me for a long moment.

“Mr. Caldwell, when was the last time you were inside your residence?”

“This afternoon, around 4:00. My wife asked me to leave for a few days. She said she needed space.”

“And you left.”

“Yes. Without argument. We’ve been having problems. I thought… I thought she just needed time to think.”

Detective Reyes nodded slowly.

“Mr. Caldwell, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me.”

“Okay.”

“Do you own a firearm?”

The question hit me like a punch.

“What? No. I’ve never owned a gun in my life. Why are you asking me about guns?”

She didn’t answer. She just gestured toward her unmarked car.

“Please come with me, Mr. Caldwell. We found something inside your house that you need to know about.”

Let me tell you about my life before that night.

My name is Warren Caldwell. I’m 44 years old. I’ve lived in Thornton, Colorado, a suburb north of Denver, for the past twelve years. I work as an IT infrastructure manager for a healthcare company, making $94,000 a year.

Steady job. Good benefits. The kind of career that lets you provide for a family.

I married Meredith Price in 2010. We were young. I was 28. She was 25. But we were sure—certain—in that way young people are before life teaches them that certainty is an illusion.

Owen came along in 2012. Bonnie in 2015.

We bought the house on Maple Ridge Drive when Meredith was pregnant with our son. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a backyard big enough for a swing set, and a dog we kept promising the kids we’d get someday.

For a long time, it was good. Not perfect—no marriages are—but good. We were partners. We communicated. We worked through problems instead of around them.

Then about two years ago, something changed. I’m still not sure what triggered it.

Maybe Meredith’s career taking off. She had started her own marketing consultancy, was working with bigger clients, making more money than she ever had before. Maybe the stress of raising two kids in a world that seemed to get more chaotic every year.

Maybe just the slow erosion that happens when two people stop paying attention to each other.

She became distant. Distracted. Always on her phone, always working late, always somewhere other than present.

I tried talking to her about it. She said I was imagining things. Said she was just busy. Said I needed to stop being so needy.

I believed her. Or told myself I did.

The signs were there. Of course they always are. The new lingerie I never saw her wear. The gym membership she suddenly started using religiously. The way she would turn her phone face down whenever I walked into the room.

I ignored them. Buried them under work and kids and the daily grind of keeping a household running. I didn’t want to know.

And then she asked me to leave.

“I need space.”

Those three words that never mean what they say. That always mean something worse.

I should have seen it coming. I didn’t.

Detective Reyes took me to the Thornton Police Station. Not under arrest, she assured me. Just for questioning. Just to clear some things up.

I sat in an interview room for two hours, answering questions I didn’t understand about a situation no one would explain.

Where was I between 6:00 p.m. and midnight at the Comfort Inn on Highway 36? I could show them my credit card receipt.

Why did my wife ask me to leave? She said she needed space. We’d been having marital problems.

Did we argue before I’d left? No. I just left.

Did I have any reason to believe my wife was in danger? No. She was fine when I left. Upset, but fine.

Had I noticed anything unusual lately? Strange behavior? Unfamiliar people around the house? No. Nothing.

They let me stew in that room for another hour before Detective Reyes came back. This time, she had a folder.

“Mr. Caldwell, I’m going to show you some photographs. I need you to tell me if you recognize what you see.”

She laid the first photo on the table.

My living room. But wrong.

Furniture overturned. A lamp shattered on the floor. Dark stains on the carpet that I knew with sick certainty were blood.

“What? What happened?”

Second photo.

My kitchen—the sink where Meredith had stood just hours ago asking me to leave.

More blood. Spatter on the cabinets, the walls, pooling on the tile floor.

“Mr. Caldwell, where is my wife? Where is she?”

“We don’t know. She’s not at the residence. Her car is gone. Her phone goes straight to voicemail.”

“Then whose blood is that?”

Detective Reyes laid down the third photo.

A man, late thirties, fit, dark hair, lying on my living room floor in a spreading pool of crimson—dead.

“Do you recognize this man, Mr. Caldwell?”

I stared at the photo, at the face frozen in death. I had never seen him before in my life.

“No. I have no idea who that is.”

“His name is Gavin Mercer. Thirty-eight years old. Real estate agent based in Broomfield.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Are you certain? He’s never been to your home, never met your wife.”

“I told you. I’ve never seen him before.”

Detective Reyes leaned back in her chair.

“Mr. Caldwell, Gavin Mercer was found shot to death in your living room approximately three hours ago. Your wife is missing. Your children are safe at their grandmother’s house. We’ve already confirmed that.”

“But I need you to understand the situation you’re in.”

“What situation? I wasn’t even there. I was at a hotel.”

“A hotel you checked into after your wife asked you to leave. Conveniently providing you with an alibi.”

“Conveniently?” My voice cracked. “She asked me to go. I didn’t want to leave.”

“Yet you did. Without argument, without questioning why.”

The implication landed like a brick.

They thought I was involved. They thought I had killed this man—this stranger—in my own home, or that I had arranged it somehow. Sent away by my wife so I would have an alibi while someone else pulled the trigger.

“I want a lawyer,” I said.

It was the first smart thing I’d done all day.

The next seventy-two hours were the worst of my life. I wasn’t arrested. They didn’t have enough evidence. My alibi checked out.

Security cameras at the Comfort Inn showed me entering at 5:23 p.m. and not leaving until Jerome’s call. The timeline didn’t work for me as the shooter, but that didn’t mean I was clear.

Meredith was still missing.

Her car was found abandoned in a parking garage in downtown Denver, wiped clean of prints. Her credit cards hadn’t been used. Her phone was off. She had vanished completely.

The kids were with her mother—confused and scared and asking questions nobody could answer. I couldn’t see them. The police advised against it while the investigation was ongoing.

And Meredith’s mother, Helen, was convinced I had somehow orchestrated everything.

“You drove her to this,” she spat at me when I tried to call. “Whatever she did, it’s because of you.”

I didn’t even know what Meredith had done. Not yet.

My lawyer—a sharp woman named Teresa Hang—kept me informed as details emerged.

Gavin Mercer, 38 years old, divorced, successful real estate agent with a reputation for charm and a client list full of wealthy women. He had been shot twice in the chest with a .38-caliber revolver.

Time of death was estimated between 8:00 and 9:00 p.m., while I was lying in a hotel bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if my marriage was over.

The gun was never found. But other things were.

His car was parked two streets over, suggesting he hadn’t wanted neighbors to see him arrive. His phone records showed hundreds of texts and calls with Meredith over the past eight months.

His apartment contained photographs of the two of them together. Intimate photographs—the kind that left no doubt about the nature of their relationship.

My wife had been having an affair. And her lover was now dead on my living room floor.

The affair had started ten months before. I learned this not from police, but from Meredith’s best friend, Claudia.

She came to see me four days after the murder, after I’d been cleared as a suspect, but while Meredith was still missing. She looked terrible—pale, shaking, guilt written across every feature.

“I should have told you,” she said, sitting across from me in my lawyer’s office. “I wanted to so many times, but Meredith begged me not to. Said she was going to end it. Said she just needed time.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since the beginning. She met Gavin at a networking event. One thing led to another.”

Claudia shook her head.

“She wasn’t happy, Warren. She felt trapped, like her life was just going through the motions. So she had an affair. I’m not defending her. I’m just explaining.”

“Did she love him?”

Claudia hesitated.

“She thought she did for a while. But lately things had changed. Gavin was becoming possessive. Controlling. He wanted her to leave you, to be with him publicly.”

“She kept saying she needed more time.”

“And the night she asked me to leave, she was supposed to end it that night. Break things off for good.”

“She asked you to leave because she didn’t want you to be there when she told him.”

“How considerate of her,” I said flatly.

“Warren—”

“My wife was going to dump her boyfriend in our living room, and she sent me to a hotel so I wouldn’t interrupt. And now he’s dead and she’s missing and everyone thinks I had something to do with it.”

Claudia started crying.

“I don’t know what happened that night. I swear I don’t. Meredith was going to call me after. She never did. I tried her phone a hundred times. She never answered.”

“Because she killed him,” I said. “She killed him and ran.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What else could have happened? He’s dead in my house. She’s gone. The gun is gone. She’s not a victim here, Claudia. She’s a suspect.”

Claudia didn’t have an answer. Neither did I.

Meredith turned herself in.

Nine days later, she walked into the Denver Police Department at 3:00 in the afternoon, accompanied by a lawyer she had hired with money I didn’t know she had.

I found out from Detective Reyes.

“She’s claiming self-defense,” the detective told me. “Says Gavin Mercer attacked her when she tried to end the relationship. Says she shot him with a gun he brought to the house.”

“Says she panicked and ran because she didn’t think anyone would believe her.”

“Do you believe her?”

Detective Reyes’s expression was unreadable.

“That’s for a jury to decide, Mr. Caldwell. Not me.”

The story Meredith told went like this.

She had invited Gavin over that night to break off their relationship. She had sent me and the kids away because she was afraid of how he would react—not to protect me from the scene, but because she feared violence.

When she told Gavin it was over, he became enraged, pulled a gun, threatened to kill her then himself. In the struggle, the gun went off twice, striking him in the chest.

Meredith panicked. She didn’t call 911 because she was afraid no one would believe her—the cheating wife who killed her lover. She wiped down surfaces, took the gun, drove to Denver, ditched her car, and spent nine days hiding in a motel trying to figure out what to do.

“It was self-defense,” she insisted. She was the victim.

The trial lasted three weeks. I attended every day, sat in the gallery with Helen glaring at me from across the aisle, watching as the prosecution and defense painted two very different pictures of what happened in my home.

The prosecution’s version: Meredith had lured Gavin to the house with the intention of ending things. When he threatened to expose the affair, to tell me, to ruin her reputation, she shot him in cold blood.

The struggle was fiction. The self-defense was a cover story crafted during nine days on the run.

The defense’s version: Gavin was a predator who targeted vulnerable married women. He had a history of possessive behavior. A previous girlfriend had filed a restraining order.

When Meredith tried to leave him, he snapped. She defended herself with his own weapon.

The evidence was maddeningly inconclusive.

The gun was never recovered. Meredith claimed she threw it in a dumpster somewhere in Denver, but it was never found.

There were signs of a struggle in the living room—overturned furniture, a broken lamp—that supported her story.

But there was also a receipt in Gavin’s wallet for a romantic dinner reservation for two made the day before he died. Not the actions of a man expecting to be dumped.

And Meredith’s phone records showed she had texted him that afternoon.

“Come over tonight. Warren will be gone. We need to talk about us.”

We need to talk about us. Not exactly the phrasing of a woman planning to end a relationship.

The jury deliberated for four days. When they came back, the verdict was manslaughter.

Not murder. Not self-defense. Manslaughter.

The judge sentenced Meredith to twelve years with the possibility of parole after eight. She didn’t look at me when they led her out of the courtroom. I didn’t try to catch her eye.

There was nothing left to say.

The divorce was finalized six months later, uncontested. She signed the papers from prison. I got full custody of Owen and Bonnie, the house, most of our assets.

She didn’t fight any of it. I think she knew she had lost the right to fight.

The kids were damaged. There’s no other word for it.

Their mother was in prison for killing a man. Their father was the oblivious husband who had been sleeping in a hotel while it happened. Everything they thought they knew about their family was a lie.

Owen, at twelve, became angry. Sullen. Refused to talk about his mother. When other kids at school found out—and they always find out—he got into fights. Broke a boy’s nose who made a comment about murderers.

Bonnie, at nine, went the other direction. Quiet. Withdrawn.

She started having nightmares, wetting the bed, regressing in ways that terrified me.

I put them both in therapy. Went myself. We stumbled through the days one at a time, trying to rebuild something from the wreckage.

The house was impossible to live in. I tried for three months, but every time I walked through the living room, I saw the photos, the blood, the body of a man who had been sleeping with my wife.

I sold it at a loss. We moved to a smaller place in Westminster, starting fresh in a neighborhood where no one knew our story.

It helped a little. Nothing helped enough.

Three years have passed.

Owen is fifteen now, a sophomore in high school, still angry sometimes, but channeling it better. He joined the wrestling team, found an outlet for all that rage.

His grades are decent. He has friends. He’s going to be okay. I think.

Bonnie is twelve. She’s in therapy still. Probably will be for years.

But she laughs again. Makes jokes. Has sleepovers with girlfriends. Talks about boys she thinks are cute. The nightmares are rare now.

I’m forty-seven, still working the same job, still living in Westminster, still putting one foot in front of the other. I haven’t dated. Haven’t wanted to.

The idea of trusting someone again, of opening up, of being vulnerable—it feels impossible. Maybe it always will.

Meredith is up for parole next year. Eight years served of her twelve-year sentence. Model prisoner, apparently. Taking classes, attending counseling, doing everything right.

The parole board sent me a notification, asked if I wanted to submit a statement. I haven’t decided yet.

What would I even say?

You destroyed our family. You had an affair, killed your lover, and left me to pick up the pieces.

Or: I wasn’t enough for you. I didn’t pay attention. I let our marriage fall apart and then acted surprised when it exploded.

Both are true. Neither feels complete.

Owen asked me about her last month. We were driving home from wrestling practice, stopped at a red light, when he said:

“Dad, do you think mom meant to kill him?”

I didn’t answer right away. It wasn’t a question with an easy answer.

“I don’t know, son. I wasn’t there. But what do you think? You knew her better than anyone.”

“Did I?” he asked.

I had thought so once.

“I think your mom made a series of bad choices,” I said. “The affair. The lies. Sending me away that night.”

“And I think when things went wrong, she made another bad choice, either in the moment or in trying to cover it up.”

“But do you think she’s a murderer?”

The light turned green. I drove forward.

“I think she’s someone who did something terrible and is paying for it.”

“Whether that makes her a murderer or a victim or something in between… I don’t know if those labels matter anymore.”

“They matter to me.”

“Why?”

Owen was quiet for a moment.

“Because she’s my mom, and I need to know if I should hate her or forgive her. I can’t do both.”

I pulled into our driveway, turned off the engine.

“You can do both, actually. People do it all the time. Love someone and hate what they did. Miss someone and be furious at them.”

“Forgiveness isn’t a switch you flip. It’s a process, and you get to take as long as you need.”

“Do you forgive her?”

I thought about Meredith. About the woman I married. About the stranger she became. About that night at the kitchen sink when she asked me to leave and I went without fighting.

“I’m working on it,” I said. “Some days are easier than others.”

Owen nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

We went inside. He did homework. I made dinner. The routine of ordinary life, rebuilt from the ruins of catastrophe.

It’s not the life I imagined, but it’s the life I have.

There’s something I haven’t told you.

About six months after the trial, I received a letter. No return address. Postmarked from the state correctional facility where Meredith was incarcerated.

I almost didn’t open it, but curiosity won.

Warren, I don’t expect you to read this. I wouldn’t blame you if you threw it away. But I need to say some things even if you never see them.

I’m sorry.

Those words feel pathetically inadequate, but they’re all I have. I’m sorry for the affair. For lying to you, for sending you away that night, for everything that happened after.

I’m sorry for what I did to our children. They don’t deserve a mother in prison. They don’t deserve the whispers and the stares and the weight of my choices on their shoulders.

I’m sorry for the woman you married disappearing because somewhere along the way I stopped being her. I became someone I don’t recognize, someone who could cheat and lie and ultimately do what I did in that living room.

I know you want to know the truth. Here it is.

I did try to end things that night. And Gavin did get angry, but I don’t know anymore if he would have actually hurt me. Maybe he would have just yelled and left.

Maybe I could have called the police instead of grabbing that gun. I’ll never know. I made a choice in a split second and now I live with it forever.

I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m just asking you to know that I’m sorry for all of it.

Tell Owen and Bonnie that I love them, that none of this was their fault, that I think about them every single day.

And Warren, I know I don’t have the right to say this, but I hope you find happiness. Real happiness—the kind I couldn’t give you and didn’t let you find with someone else.

You deserved better than me.

Meredith.

I read that letter once, then I put it in a drawer and didn’t look at it again for two years.

I found it last week when I was cleaning out old files. Read it again with fresh eyes.

She was right about one thing: I did deserve better.

But she was wrong about another thing. She didn’t stop being the woman I married. She was always capable of this.

The deception. The selfishness. The willingness to sacrifice others for her own desires. I just didn’t want to see it.

Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I should have paid closer attention.

Maybe if I had fought harder for the marriage, for the truth, for anything, things would have been different. Or maybe not.

Maybe some people are broken in ways that can’t be fixed, and loving them means accepting that they might destroy you.

I don’t know the answer. I’m not sure anyone does.

Bonnie asked to visit her mother last month. First time she’s ever asked.

Twelve years old, standing in my kitchen, twisting her hands the way she does when she’s nervous.

“I need to see her, Dad. I need to talk to her. I need to understand.”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to protect her from the pain of that fluorescent-lit visiting room, the orange jumpsuit, the mother who had become a stranger.

But she wasn’t asking for permission. Not really. She was telling me what she needed.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll set it up.”

We went last Sunday. Owen didn’t want to come. He’s not ready, and I won’t push him.

The visit lasted forty-five minutes. I didn’t go into the room. I sat in the waiting area, staring at institutional walls while my daughter met with the woman who had shattered our family.

When Bonnie came out, she was crying, but not in the devastated way I feared. These were different tears. Cleansing, maybe. Or at least the beginning of something that might eventually become closure.

“She looks old,” Bonnie said in the car. “Older than I remembered.”

“Prison ages people.”

“She said she thinks about us every day. That she’s sorry. That she hopes someday we can forgive her.”

“What did you say?”

Bonnie was quiet for a long moment.

“I said, ‘I don’t know yet, but I’m trying.’”

I reached over and squeezed her hand.

“That’s all any of us can do, sweetheart. Just try.”

The parole hearing is in three months. I’ve decided to submit a statement—not to keep her in prison longer. Twelve years is long enough for a crime committed in the chaos of a moment, whatever that moment really was.

But to say what I need to say. What I should have said at the kitchen sink when she asked me to leave. To the parole board.

My name is Warren Caldwell. I was married to Meredith Caldwell for fourteen years. We have two children together, Owen and Bonnie, who are now fifteen and twelve.

On the night of September 14th, 2024, Meredith asked me to leave our home. I didn’t know why at the time. I didn’t know about the affair, about Gavin Mercer, about any of it.

I just knew my wife wanted space, so I gave it to her.

Hours later, a man was dead in my living room and my wife was a fugitive.

The years since then have been the hardest of my life: explaining to our children why their mother was in prison, rebuilding our family without her, learning to trust myself again after discovering that the life I thought I had was built on lies.

I’m not here to argue for or against Meredith’s release. That’s your decision, not mine.

I’m here to say that whatever you decide, I hope it leads to something like peace.

For Meredith, who has to live with what she did. For Owen and Bonnie, who are still figuring out how to love a mother they can’t fully trust. And for me, who spent fourteen years married to someone I never really knew.

None of us chose this outcome. But all of us have to live with it.

Whatever you decide, I hope it helps us move forward.

Warren Caldwell.

Maybe she’ll get out. Maybe she’ll serve her full twelve years. Either way, life will continue.

Owen will graduate high school, go to college, become whoever he’s meant to be. Bonnie will grow up, heal, maybe even thrive.

And I’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other. It’s not heroic. It’s not inspiring.

It’s just what you do. When the life you planned falls apart, you build a new one.

The house on Maple Ridge Drive has new owners now. I drove by it last week. Don’t know why. Morbid curiosity. Maybe some need to see if the past still existed.

The new family has repainted it—blue instead of beige. There’s new landscaping. A basketball hoop in the driveway that wasn’t there before.

Normal life happening in a place where something terrible once occurred.

I sat in my truck for a few minutes watching. Then I drove away.

The past is another country. You can visit, but you can’t live there. All you can do is keep moving forward.

If you’re watching this and something in my story resonates, here’s what I want you to know.

Pay attention to your spouse, to your marriage, to the small signs that something is wrong.

I didn’t pay attention. I buried my doubts under work and routine and the comfortable fiction that everything was fine.

If I had pushed harder, asked more questions, demanded more honesty, refused to accept “I need space” without understanding why, maybe things would have been different. Or maybe not.

Maybe Meredith was always going to make the choices she made, regardless of what I did. But at least I would have known. At least I wouldn’t have been blindsided by crime scene tape on my own front door.

Pay attention. Fight for your marriage, or end it honestly. Don’t let it dissolve into silence and distance and unanswered questions.

You deserve better than that. We all do.

Owen made dinner last night. First time ever.

Spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic bread, a salad that was mostly lettuce, but still technically a salad.

He didn’t tell me he was doing it. I came home from work and the table was set. Food was ready, and my fifteen-year-old son was standing in the kitchen looking proud and nervous.

“I wanted to do something nice,” he said. “You’ve been working a lot.”

We sat down, ate together, talked about his classes, his wrestling matches, a girl he’s too shy to ask out.

Normal family dinner.

Three years ago, I didn’t think we’d ever have one again. But here we are—broken and rebuilt, scarred, but surviving.

A family of three where there used to be four. It’s not what I planned, but it’s real. And real after everything we’ve been through is everything.

Thanks for listening.

I don’t know if my story helps anyone. It’s not a story with a clear hero or villain—just people making choices and living with the consequences.

But maybe that’s the point. Life isn’t a movie. There aren’t always clear answers or satisfying resolutions.

Sometimes you just survive and call that a victory.

If you’re going through something hard right now—a betrayal, a crisis, a moment where everything falls apart—know that survival is possible.

It won’t be easy. It won’t be quick. But you’ll get through it. One day at a time, one choice at a time.

Did you can