A Good Dad and Hard Lessons

 

I had a good daddy. The kind who worked hard, loved my mom, and adored us kids. He would have done anything for our family. I was a daddy’s girl through and through, and I always hoped my own daughters would have that same kind of relationship because I know just how special it is.

Growing up, we lived right across the street from my elementary school. On cold or rainy mornings, my mom would drive me, but if the weather was nice, she’d walk with me—at least until I was old enough to go alone. In the afternoons, I walked home with a group of neighborhood kids, but I was always the first to peel off since my house was closest.

Across the street lived a boy, we will call him Matt. He was about four years older than me—way too cool for us little kids. His dad was a GBI agent, which made him even more intimidating. One day, my friend and I were tossing a Gobstopper back and forth with him across the street. (One of the rare times he actually acknowledged our existence.) He threw it too hard and smacked me right in the mouth. I ran home crying. He came over to apologize, and honestly, I think that was the last time he ever played with us. Probably for the best.

Next to Matt lived one of my best friends and her little sister. A few other friends lived nearby, and we’d spend our afternoons riding bikes at the school, jumping on a trampoline, or climbing the massive dogwood tree in my backyard. Through the woods, there was this giant rock—technically on an old man’s property. If he caught us there, he’d run us off, and we were terrified of him. Looking back, he was probably just worried we’d get hurt, or maybe he was just a grumpy old man.

As I got older, my dad’s presence in my life remained steady. He worked the early shift—clocking in at 5 a.m. and getting home by 3:30, just in time for me to get off the bus. When I was in 11th and 12th grade, I rode with friends, but on days I had band practice, he’d be there to pick me up. He worked all day, then came home and tackled the yard, ran errands, or started supper. He never stopped.

Most importantly, he made me feel safe.

As a kid, I was terrified of tornadoes. (Still am, honestly.) I’d lie in bed, too scared to fall asleep. But the moment I heard my dad up and moving around, I could finally relax. I knew nothing bad could happen as long as he was there.

I always hoped I’d find a man like my dad. Someone steady. Someone reliable. Someone who put in the work.

My ex never came close.

In the beginning, I think he tried—on some days. But looking around my house now, all I see are the unfinished projects he swore he’d take care of. The repairs that never got made. The broken promises stacked on top of each other.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this:

If someone truly loves you, they will show up for you. You won’t have to beg. You won’t have to make excuses for them. And they will never put themselves in a position to lose you.

If you feel alone in a relationship, chances are… you are alone.

Walk away.

I didn’t, for a long time. I was scared of being alone. But here’s what I know now: it is so much better to be alone than to be with someone who makes you feel lonely.

And now? I am alone. But I’m at peace.

He’s struggling—I hear that through the grapevine. Over the past year, he’s messaged me more times than I can count, asking to come home. But the thing is, I had to learn how to live without him a long time ago.

Now, it’s his turn to figure out what it means to have lost a family he should have taken care of.

And I’ll say it again, for anyone who needs to hear it:

Know your worth. And don’t let anyone treat you like you’re anything less.

The Night We Finally Called It Quits

Alright, let’s cut to the chase—the night it all ended.

It was around 10 PM. My ex still wasn’t home (big surprise), and I had just logged into a new game I downloaded at the recommendation of an online friend. You see, about six months earlier, I was deep into New World on Steam. If you’re a gamer, you know some bosses and quests require a team, and while I usually avoided group play (thanks to past experiences with toxic players), I really wanted to progress in the story. So, I reluctantly joined up with three random players—two female avatars and one male.

We hit it off. The teamwork was solid, and we ended up playing together for hours. No voice chat, just text, and after a successful run, we all added each other as friends. One of the “girls” and I played together the most, bonding over our shared sense of humor and stupid jokes.

Then, one night, mid-game banter, the bombshell dropped.

“Dude, I’m a guy.”

Wait, WHAT?! None of us had any clue. Not that it mattered—we were just playing a game. We laughed it off, confirmed our respective genders (probably should have used pronouns from the start), and moved on. It changed nothing, except maybe making his gameplay style make a little more sense.

Anyway, fast forward to that night. I was chilling in my pink fluffy bean bag chair, scrolling for a new mobile game. He suggested a survival game, and while no one else was into it, I figured, why not? So, there I was, gathering berries and wood, crafting tools, making food—basic survival game stuff—when my ex walked in.

He took one look at my phone and, without missing a beat, demanded, “Hand me the phone.”

“Excuse me?” I blinked up at him, annoyed. He had just waltzed in from a night out with friends and was now barking orders like I was a kid caught sneaking candy before dinner.

“I’m just playing a game,” I said, keeping my grip on my iPad as he tried to yank it from me. He pulled harder. The thing started bending. It was only a few months old. I was making payments on it.

“Let go or I’ll break it,” he growled at me.

Lovely.

I let go. He scrolled through menus, checking the chat, clearly searching for something incriminating. Then, he snatched my phone. I tried to stop him at first but quickly realized I didn’t care enough to fight over it. I had nothing to hide. So, whatever. Have fun.

For the next 30 minutes, he stood there, scrolling through my Discord messages, grilling me like I was on trial. 

"Who is this person?" I answered him. 

"Why are you hiding it?" I wasn’t. 

The more he interrogated me, the more I felt violated. So, I grabbed my iPad, logged in remotely, and signed out of all other devices. His access to my account vanished in an instant.

That’s when he lost it. He hurled my phone across the room, called me some choice names, and stormed out.

Now, let me give you some background. Over the past year, he’d developed a habit of getting off work and going out to eat—alone. At our restaurant. The little Mexican spot we used to go to together. One night, some people invited him to join their table. Among them? A married woman. Over time, their little dinner group shrank until it was mostly just the two of them. They added each other on Snapchat. Messaged late at night. Daily conversations. Made it home safe texts.

One Friday, he texted me saying he had no clue when he’d be home. A while later, he sent me a picture of the new Buc-ee’s that had just opened—two hours away. I later found out it wasn’t a group trip. It was just him and her. A date.

And yet, I was the one being accused of cheating. Classic projection. If he could pin something on me, he wouldn’t have to face his own guilt.

Later that night, after what I assume was a quick consultation with his mistress on Snapchat, he came back into my office.

“Are you happy?” he asked. “How long have you felt like this wasn’t working?”

I didn’t hold back. “A long time. After the cheating, the lies, the manipulation—the abuse—I forgave you more times than I should have. I’m over it. I don’t want to fix it anymore.”

“So… what are we doing?”

“What do you mean?”

Then he drops this gem: He had already gone to the courthouse to ask about divorce weeks ago.

Oh. So, this was premeditated.

“Would you fight it?” he asked.

“No.”

He laughed and walked out.

The next night, instead of going out with his friends, he came home—just to argue. He mentioned moving out, and I thought that was an excellent idea. Then he hit me with, “I still want to work on our marriage, but I think I should move out while we do.”

Sure, dude. Go right ahead.

He spent the night acting like I had destroyed our marriage. Excuse me? I was playing video games while he was out wining and dining another woman.

A few days later, he was weirdly excited to move out. I had my suspicions.

“Are you moving in with her?” I asked.

“…Yeah.”

Floored. Absolutely floored. Not only did I have to break the news to the kids that we were separating, but also that their dad was shacking up with someone else immediately. When I pointed out how bad that would look, he had a sudden change of heart—moved in with his mom instead. (But not before getting her a debit card linked to his account. Something he never did for me in all our years of marriage.)

Then came the hardest part—telling the kids.

I had receipts. I laid it all out.

What I didn’t expect? They had their own horror stories. They told me about things he had done to them behind my back. The things they suffered. I had stayed for stability, for a “steady home.” But in reality? They had been dealing with their own traumas.

If only I had left sooner.

Oh, and as a final goodbye gift? He gave me and our youngest COVID on Thanksgiving before moving out in December. Classic.

And that’s how it all ended. Not with a bang, but with a ridiculous amount of irony.

Red Flags & Warning Signs: I Should Have Seen It Coming

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about divorce—especially from my own experience—it’s that it doesn’t “just happen.” Sure, some people might be blindsided by it, but let’s be real: one or both people usually check out long before the final straw snaps.

Looking back, the red flags in my relationship were waving like they were trying to signal a rescue helicopter. I just chose to ignore them.

The First Red Flag: The Vanishing Act

Ah, young love. That thrilling, butterflies-in-your-stomach, can't-wait-to-see-you kind of obsession. We had only been dating for five days, and I was already head over heels. I spent my workday as a bank teller, barely focusing on counting money because my mind was stuck on our dinner-and-a-movie plans. He worked at a car repair shop, and in my romantic little world, I imagined him thinking of me too.

Spoiler alert: He wasn’t.

That Friday night, I rushed home, showered, picked out my cutest outfit, and called him to confirm plans. No answer.

No big deal, right? He probably just got off late.

Call #2. Nothing.

An hour passed. Now I was getting a little anxious.

Call #3. Straight to voicemail.

At this point, I was full-on spiraling. We had a 7:00 PM movie, and it was creeping past 7:00 with no word from him. So, in true rom-com-but-make-it-sad fashion, I drove to his house. He wasn’t there.

I waited. I called again. And again. And then, after reality started sinking in, I cried myself to sleep. Because guess what? I’d been stood up.

The Next Morning: The Classic Excuse

Bright and early the next day, my phone rang. It was him.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice dripping with remorse. “I took a friend home from work, had a few drinks, drank too much, tried to sober up, and… I fell asleep.”

I should have seen through the nonsense. I should have walked away. Instead, I did what so many of us do when we’re blinded by new love: I forgave him.

And we spent the whole day together like nothing had ever happened.

Red Flag #2: The Disappearing Game—Round Two

Fast forward a month. We had already moved in together (yes, a month—don’t judge), and I convinced myself that that incident was a one-time mistake.

Narrator: It was not.

He had switched jobs and was working at a local equipment company. They held a raffle for Atlanta Hawks tickets, and he bought in. I didn’t think much of it—until, of course, the day of the game.

It was another Friday night. We had plans. I was home, waiting for him to get off work.

And then?

His phone went off.

No text. No call. Just radio silence.

Turns out, he won the tickets. And instead of calling me, inviting me, or even letting me know, he just went to the game.

I sat at home, waiting. Again.

When he finally stumbled in later that night, I braced myself for some grand explanation. Nope. Just another half-hearted, "Sorry, babe."

At this point, I should have been waving a giant 🚩🚩🚩 over my head. But I didn’t. I let it slide.

The Truth About Red Flags

The problem with red flags isn’t that we don’t see them—it’s that we ignore them. We convince ourselves that this time is different. That they didn’t mean to hurt us. That they’ll change.

But they don’t.

That night at the movie theater? That Hawks game? Those weren’t random moments of selfishness. They were patterns. Patterns that played out again and again throughout our entire relationship.

So, if you’re in a situation where someone keeps disrespecting your time, your feelings, or your worth, listen to me: It won’t magically get better. Love should make you feel secure, valued, and respected—not like you’re constantly questioning your own importance.

I learned that lesson the hard way which is why I am newly divorced after 50. But you don’t have to. 💛

Hot Flashes and Fresh Starts

 Well, here we are.

I've been thinking about starting a blog forever, but I kept getting stuck on the same two questions: Where do I even start? and Who would want to read what I have to say?

I’ve been told—more times than I can count—that blogging is hard. Finding a niche, building an audience, connecting with people… it's a whole thing. And honestly? I still have no clue what I’m doing. I have zero expectations. But you know what? Here I am.

Once again.

Staring at this blank screen, wondering if anyone out there feels like I do—lost, lonely, and completely over it. Maybe you're in the thick of a divorce. Maybe you’ve already signed the papers. Or maybe you're teetering on the edge, wondering if you should just say, screw it and start over.

Regardless, I think we need each other.

Or maybe it's just me who needs somebody. Either way… here goes nothing.

Who Am I?

Hi, I’m Melody Layne. My birth certificate says I'm 50ish, but my brain still thinks I’m in my 20s. My body, however, is convinced I fought in the Civil War. I wake up every morning feeling worse than when I went to bed—creaky knees, aching back, and a deep regret for not stretching more in my youth. But hey, I’m still here. So that’s something.

I’m newly divorced after 27 years of marriage.

Twenty-seven. Freaking. Years.

Wasted? Not entirely. I have my kids, and honestly, they’re the only reason I’m still standing. I have three daughters and one son, all grown, scattered across the country, living their lives.

• My oldest is in Colorado, thriving as a lead librarian and raising my only granddaughter—who, terrifyingly enough, just started middle school. (Hold me.)
• My son, who turns 27 soon, moved back home to "save money" but mostly just spends it on his girlfriend. Love him (and her), but financial responsibility is not his strong suit.
• My middle daughter lives in Washington—about as far from me as she could get without leaving the country. Not personal (I think). We talk every day, though, and she has an amazing husband I proudly claim as my bonus son.
• My youngest, my 23-year-old, still lives at home, figuring things out. She’s an incredible artist and a hardcore gamer.

How It Started

My ex and I met in high school. We both had crushes but never said anything because of girl code—he dated one of my best friends. Off-limits. End of story.

Flash forward nine years. April 26, 1996. I was fresh out of a bad breakup and in need of a girls’ night out. Dinner, a movie, and a trip to Applebee’s (because I was clearly living large).

I noticed a guy across the restaurant who looked familiar. He saw me, smiled, and eventually walked over.

"Hey, do you remember me?"

I… did not.

After some awkward guessing, he told me who he was, and I was shocked. He’d changed—taller, bigger, different. We chatted until his food arrived, and before heading back to his table, he asked if we could meet up later. I said yes. My best friend, ever the voice of reason, was not thrilled. She gave me the talk—you know, the are you sure this is a good idea? talk.

I should have listened.

But I didn’t.

We met up that night at a park near his place. We talked for hours. It was nice. He lent me his hoodie because I was cold. There were no fireworks, no magical movie moments—just two people reconnecting.

If I could go back, I’d tell that younger version of myself to run. To remember her worth. To know she deserved so much more.

But we all know hindsight is 20/20.

So… Now What?

Now, I’m here. Navigating midlife, menopause, and a messy new beginning. Some days, I feel free. Other days, I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched by reality. I want to build something new for myself—starting with this blog. 

If you’ve made it this far, bless you. Seriously.

If you’re in the same boat—divorced, thinking about it, or just feeling a little lost—let’s talk. Drop a comment, say hi, share your story. And if you feel like sticking around, I’d love that.

Stay tuned—there’s plenty more to come. No one dreams of divorce after 50, but I will get through it and so will you.