He didn’t want to “share” me with a toddler. Just a suitcase, a slammed door, and silence.

I stood in the kitchen, holding Lachlan in one arm and unpaid bills in the other. I didn’t cry. There was no time. The next morning, I started working two jobs: receptionist by day, waitress by night. Surviving became life itself.

Wake. Work. Cook. Fold clothes. Repeat. Nights were often spent alone on the living room floor, eating cold leftovers, wondering if this was all life had to offer.

Money was tight. My clothes came from neighbors or church donations, and I patched or sewed new ones for Lachlan. Sewing was my only spark of creativity, my escape. But making something pretty for myself felt selfish—something I was never allowed.

My ex had rules: no white, no pink. “You’re not