Chapter 21
Corine
It had been three months since the divorce, and I barely recognized the woman staring back at me in the mirror.
She looked like a ghost—eyes hollow and sunken, skin pale and drawn, like it was desperately trying to contain a soul unraveling at the seams.
My once vibrant auburn curls now hung limply around my face, dull and lifeless, much like the woman I’d become.
Los Angeles, with all its flashing cameras and cruel whispers, was behind me now.
I had packed up the last pieces of my pride, my children, and a suitcase full of shame and come home to North Carolina.
My hometown.
But it didn’t feel like home. Not anymore. Not after the curious stares at the grocery store, the hushed voices at church, the pitying smiles that never quite reached the eyes.
On paper, I’d had everything.
A powerful husband who was admired in the public eye, two beautiful children, a life most people envied.
But behind closed doors, that marriage had been a slow, quiet erosion.
Infidelity. Gaslighting. Manipulation disguised as love. The kind of hurt that left bruises no camera could capture.
And when I finally left him, when I finally chose myself—chose them—the media shredded me to pieces.
The broken wife.
The drama queen.
The woman who “snapped.”
Now I was living in my childhood bedroom again, a 32-year-old woman with an almost-four-year-old son and a four-month-old baby daughter, trying to survive each day without falling apart in front of them.
I couldn’t even open social media anymore—the judgment, the cruel memes, the conspiracies.
They never stopped.
I was a ghost.
A mother on autopilot.
I changed diapers.
I made snacks. I rocked Astrid through the night while she cried from colic and I cried from despair. I tried to hold it all together for Kyle, who didn’t understand why Daddy didn’t tuck him in anymore.
But tonight… tonight, I was breaking.
It had been a brutal day.
Astrid had screamed for hours with no relief, Kyle had thrown a tantrum that left me in tears, and my mother had snapped at me for not eating.
Again. The house felt like it was pressing in on me, tighter and tighter, until it was hard to breathe.
When the kids finally fell asleep—Astrid curled in her bassinet after a long feed, Kyle snoring softly in his racecar bed—I sat down in the hallway outside their rooms and let the silence close in.
And then came the whispers.
You’re a failure.
You’re not enough.
They’d be better off without you.
I tried to fight them off. I turned on the TV—static. I scrolled through old photos on my phone—smiles, red carpet snapshots, baby bump selfies. A woman full of light. I didn’t know her anymore. She didn’t exist.
I moved through the house like I was sleepwalking, like something outside of myself was pulling me forward.
I stopped at Astrid’s bassinet first. She was breathing softly, her tiny hands curled into fists. I traced a finger along her soft cheek and whispered, “I love you, my sweet girl. I’m so sorry.”
Then I tiptoed to Kyle’s room. He was curled under his Spider-Man blanket, thumb tucked in his mouth, clutching his teddy. I knelt beside him, brushing his hair off his forehead and pressing a kiss there.
“You’re my everything,” I whispered. “You made me a mom. I’ll always love you.”
He stirred but didn’t wake.
I walked to my bedroom, cold hardwood under my feet, the old posters still on the wall from when I was fifteen. I opened the window. The winter air hit me like a slap—sharp, real. I stepped onto the ledge, gripping the frame with trembling fingers.
The wind tugged at my nightgown.
It’ll be quick. It won’t hurt. They’ll forget. They’ll move on. They’ll be okay without you.
Tears slipped down my cheeks as I looked out at the stars. I thought of every moment that led here. The humiliation. The betrayal. The isolation. I thought of crying while breastfeeding, hiding my tears so Kyle wouldn’t ask what was wrong. I thought of the exhaustion, the bone-deep emptiness.
And just as I leaned forward—
“Mommy?”
My eyes snapped open.
Kyle. Standing in the doorway, eyes heavy with sleep, Spider-Man pajama top twisted around his belly, teddy in one hand. He rubbed his eyes and blinked at me.
“Mommy, why are you out there?”
I froze.
A sob rose in my throat, but I forced a weak smile. “Baby… go back to bed, okay? Mommy’s just… getting some air.”
He took a step toward me. “But I had a bad dream. I wanted you to sing the rainbow song.”
His voice was soft. So soft. And scared.
He took a step closer. “But where are you going? I had a bad dream. Can you tuck me in again?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but another voice beat me to it.
“Corinne?!”
My mother. Panic in her voice.
“Corinne, where are you?!”
Footsteps thundered down the hallway.
Then—“Oh my God.”
She was there, her hand flying to her mouth, my father close behind.
“No,” my mother whispered, her voice breaking. “Please. Baby, no. Come down. Please.”
“I can’t,” I said, the tears now flowing freely. “I can’t do this anymore, Mom. I’m so tired. Everything hurts.”
My father’s face was pale, eyes filled with horror. “Corinne, please. We’ll get you help. Don’t do this.”
Kyle whimpered, still standing frozen at the door. “Mommy? Please don’t leave.”
That sound—that tiny, broken plea—shattered something in me.
“Corinne, think of Astrid,” my sister said, rushing in behind them. “Think of Kyle. Think of us.”
“I do! I think about them all the time! I’m failing them every day! I can’t even breathe anymore! I don’t know how to fix this!”
“Let us help you,” my mother begged. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Kyle took another step, tears on his cheeks. “Mommy… please don’t go away.”
I looked at him—really looked at him. His little fists. His shaking lip. His big brown eyes full of fear.
That’s what pulled me back.
I collapsed. Backwards. Not off the ledge, but into my mother’s arms as she lunged and dragged me inside.
I crumbled onto the floor, sobbing, shaking. My mother held me like she did when I was small, rocking me gently, whispering,
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe now.”
My father knelt beside us, his hand steady on my back.
My sister scooped Kyle into her arms, holding him close, whispering reassurances into his ear as he clung to her, confused and scared.
“You’re not alone,” my mother whispered again. “We’re here. We’re going to help you heal.”
And in that moment—collapsed on the floor, wrapped in arms that wouldn’t let me go—I let myself fall apart.
Because this time, I wasn’t falling alone.