My Ex Wants Me Back

Searching For Stars

(Dorcas )

I wasn’t supposed to be home yet. My shift ended early—manager let me go with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. I took the long way back, picked up the milk Brian liked.. I don’t even know why I paused outside the house, like my bones knew before my brain caught up. Something about the silence felt too thick, too complete.

No hum of cartoons. No clatter of Lego pieces. Just air. Still and waiting.

I dropped the milk on the counter, keys still in my hand. The hallway felt tight, like the walls were breathing, or maybe I was holding my breath. Then I heard it. A moan. Loud, and raw. The bed creaked. The wall thumped. Then another gasp, familiar, but wrong.

The bedroom door was half-closed. Not locked. Just careless, like they didn’t think I’d ever walk in. Or maybe they didn’t care. I pushed it open. No knock. Just instinct, my hand on the cold brass knob, and a pull I didn’t feel myself make.

Mara was on top of him. Hair loose, face twisted in something between pleasure and cruelty. Jude’s hands were gripping her hips, his mouth open, his eyes locked on hers. They didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Mara looked right at me, and smiled. Like she’d been waiting for this moment. Like she won.

I stood there, frozen. My body anchored to the floor, my lungs working but no air moving. I looked at him, needing—something. An apology. A lie. My name. But he blinked, once, maybe twice. Then looked back at her like I hadn’t just watched the whole world tilt sideways.

I turned around. My legs worked again. I shut the door quietly behind me and walked into the kitchen. Poured a glass of water. Spilled some on the counter. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t cry. I should’ve screamed. I didn’t. My voice stayed buried somewhere under my ribs.

Later, I heard heels. Mara. She didn’t knock. Just walked in like she’d always belonged. Her blouse was tucked in, her lipstick was perfect, and she looked like she’d come straight from a photo shoot designed to ruin me. “You were going to find out anyway,” she said, leaning a hand on the fridge. “You’re not enough for him, Dorcas . Never were.”

I stared at the floor. My voice still wouldn’t come. Maybe I nodded. Maybe I blinked too slowly. She waited like she wanted a reaction, something explosive. Something messy. But I didn’t give it to her.

She left.

That night, I opened a bottle of wine and sat in the dark. The kitchen light buzzed above, but I didn’t turn it on. I lit one candle and left it flickering on the table like it didn’t want to be here either. I sipped slow. Thought slower.

I remembered Jude’s vows. His voice shaking, the way he forgot one of the lines and made me laugh. The way he held my hand in the hospital when Brian came early. The time he brought me soup when I had the flu and watched me sleep on the couch. I played those moments on loop, trying to figure out when the actor changed. When the script flipped and I missed the cue.

I touched the ring on my finger. It felt heavier than it ever had. Like it knew something I didn’t. I slid it off. Set it down on the table. It didn’t make a sound when it landed. Not even a whisper.

The house stayed too quiet. Brian was at my mother’s. I walked to his room and crawled into his bed. It smelled like crayons, baby shampoo, something soft and safe. I pulled his blanket tight around me and held his stuffed bear like it could keep me from unraveling.

I didn’t cry. Not really. Just let the silence press against my back until it became part of me. My eyes stayed on the ceiling, searching for stars that weren’t there. Searching for anything.

But there was nothing left to see.

—------------------------------------------------

The papers felt heavy in my hands, though they were only a few sheets. Ink on paper. Names in boxes. Lines drawn through a life that once looked like forever. My pen hovered, then pressed down. Dorcas . That was all it took.

Jude didn’t even sit down.

He skimmed the top page, flipped through without reading, then reached for the pen. No questions. No sigh. Just a signature that looked like he’d practiced it.

"That’s it?" I asked, the words trembling at the edge of my tongue.

He glanced up, not meeting my eyes. "What do you want me to say?"

I didn’t answer. He didn’t either. The silence between us felt final—like a door shutting in slow motion.

I cleared my throat, swallowing something bitter. "I want full custody."

He shrugged. "Figures. You were never really close."

It was a sentence that cut sideways—quiet, sharp, and cruel. Like he meant it. Like he wanted to twist the knife but didn’t want to be seen doing it.

I nodded, lips pressed tight. No scene. No begging. No breaking down in front of him. He didn’t deserve to see me fall apart.

That night, Mara posted a picture.

Her hair was curled perfectly. Her nails were bubblegum pink. And Brian stood in front of her, smiling like he didn’t know any better. The caption read: Our little family night. So lucky to be his bonus mom.

I stared at the screen until the edges blurred. A wine glass sat near my hand, half full. I didn’t remember pouring it.

Boxes sat open in the hallway. I moved between rooms, folding, packing, forgetting, remembering.

When I carried the last box to the car, no one offered to help.

Jude stayed inside, watching TV.

Mara opened the blinds, not to wave. Just to look. Her expression stayed blank, unreadable. I didn’t care to decode it.

Brian was with friends. Or maybe at his grandparents’. No hug. No goodbye.

That was my choice, I guess. I’d told myself it would be easier.

I drove to the train station, fingers gripping the wheel too tightly. Every stoplight felt like it might change my mind.

But it didn’t.

The sky was wide when I stepped onto the platform. Pale. Overcast. Soft with early spring chill. My breath came out in short clouds.

I hesitated, one foot on the platform, the other not quite ready to leave. A part of me waited. For someone to call out. For Jude to appear. For Brian . For Mara to come running and say she was wrong, that it was all a mistake.

No one came.

I opened my phone, half to distract myself, half to feel less alone. There was a message.

Hi Dorcas , we loved your pitch. Would you be open to starting next month?

I read it again. Then again. Like it might vanish if I blinked too fast.

My thumb hovered, then tapped out: Yes. Thank you.

My reflection in the train window didn’t look like much—tired, pale, flat hair.

But there was something else.

The silence in my phone didn’t buzz with other people’s needs. No reminders. No guilt trips. No family group chats full of inside jokes I wasn’t part of. Just peace.

I took a deep breath.

The train slid into the station. The doors opened with a hiss. I stepped inside.

My heart was steady—for the first time in a long while.

No dramatic music. No grand goodbye.

Just a woman walking away.