I walked into my daughter’s birthday party after working a 14-hour hospital shift. Still in my scrubs, exhausted, holding a bouquet of peonies I bought with the last $50 in my wallet. My ex and his girlfriend Candy had thrown a lavish party — chocolate fountain, tiaras, a pony. They smirked when they saw me. Candy leaned in and whispered, “Work chic?
That’s… brave.” Then she laughed and told me to stay and help clean up. I held my tongue. For my daughter. But inside the restroom, hiding in a stall, I overheard something I wasn’t meant to hear. “I’m telling you, ” Candy said, “after this, we go for custody. She looks like she crawled out of a janitor’s closet. We’ll win.” “Then we control the trust,” Jake added. “That money is our shot. Beach house. Yoga studio. She has no idea,
