For three years, Jake had been my comfort—my partner, my co-parent in spirit, the man who brought me lemon donuts on my birthday and rubbed my shoulders when life got heavy. He didn’t just tolerate my kids, Clara and Max. I believed he loved them.
We were a week away from our backyard wedding. The folding chairs were booked, Clara was making hand-painted signs, and I was floating on joy. That night, we sat at our favorite Mexican place under flickering fairy lights. I was mid-sentence about the kids when Jake’s face went blank. He pushed aside his tacos, wiped his hands slowly, and sighed—not the tired kind, but the rehearsed kind.
“Penelope,” he said, voice flat. “I need to be honest. Your kids… they kind of bother me.”
I froze. “Bother?” I asked, hoping I’d misheard.
He continued, explaining how he felt drained by their presence. That he wanted a life with me—but not with them. That he’d tried to connect, but couldn’t. That he’d hoped I’d consider shared custody with their father so we could “start fresh.”
I stared at him, stunned. My children weren’t accessories to be negotiated. They were my heart. I asked him if he’d ever truly loved them. He said he’d tried. That he loved me—but not the package deal.
I left the restaurant in silence. That night, I sat with Clara and Max as they slept, their tiny hands curled into mine. I thought about the vows I’d written, the life I’d imagined. And I knew: love that asks you to divide yourself isn’t love at all.
I called off the wedding the next morning.
