I was sitting in Terminal 3 at two in the morning, my six-month-old son asleep against my chest, when I realized exhaustion has a kind of smell to it. Mine smelled like stale milk, buttercream frosting, and disinfectant. Three months earlier, my husband had looked at my postpartum body like it was something inconvenient someone had dropped off at his door. “I didn’t sign up for this, Paige.” That was the sentence that stayed. Not fear. Not confusion. Just rejection. Then I learned he’d been cheating while I was pregnant. By the time our divorce papers were filed, he was...
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