Part 1 — The Borrowed Shoulder
Three weeks after my divorce became official, I boarded a flight from Phoenix to Tampa carrying everything in the world that still mattered to me. Two heavy suitcases. A worn diaper bag. My fifteen-month-old daughter, Daisy, asleep against my collarbone before we’d even reached the gate.
My former husband, Brandon Cole, had already emptied our shared bank account, changed the locks on our townhouse while I was out, and started posting pictures of his shiny new life online like our five years together had simply never happened. At thirty-two, I had no permanent address to my name and barely enough money left to make it through the summer. My cousin Laura had offered us her guest room in Sarasota while I looked for work as a medical billing specialist, which was the only real plan I had left standing.
It wasn’t the fresh start people like to talk about on greeting cards. It was simply the safest place I could still reach before I ran out of options entirely.
Daisy was completely worn out by the time we finally found our row on the plane. She rubbed her tired eyes into my shoulder while I fought with the diaper bag, the collapsible stroller, and a stuffed bunny she absolutely refused to let go of, even to be buckled in.
Before I’d even managed to sit down, a fair-haired woman across the aisle let out a loud, theatrical sigh. “Wonderful,” she muttered, sharp enough for the whole row to hear. “A loud toddler right next to me.”
