Unbroken

Chapter 2

The next few weeks passed in a blur of appointments, decisions, and an overwhelming sense of uncertainty. I found myself navigating unfamiliar territory, both physically and emotionally.

My body began to change, slowly at first—a little nausea here, a bit of fatigue there—but the emotional shifts were even more profound. It was as if I was walking through a fog, unsure of what lay ahead and even less certain of how I was going to manage it all on my own.

I spent most of my days in a daze, going through the motions of life while my mind spiralled with thoughts of the future. The first big decision I had to make was whether to stay in this town—the town where Jason and I had built our life together—or leave it behind and start fresh somewhere new. Every corner, every street, every familiar face was a reminder of what had been, and what was lost.

And yet, the idea of leaving was terrifying. This was where my friends were, where my job was, where I had roots. But staying meant living in the shadow of my past, constantly haunted by memories of Jason and the life we had once planned together. It wasn’t just about me anymore, though. I had to think about the baby and what kind of environment I wanted to bring them into.

And deep down, I knew that staying here, surrounded by all these ghosts, wasn’t the best choice for either of us.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when I made up my mind. I had just returned from yet another doctor’s appointment, clutching a pamphlet on prenatal care in one hand and a coffee in the other. As I walked into the house, the silence echoed around me, too loud, too empty. I set the pamphlet down on the kitchen table and stared at it, the words blurring together as I tried to focus. But all I could think about was how alone I felt, how isolated.

I needed a change. I needed to be somewhere that didn’t hold so much pain, so much history. I needed a new beginning, not just for me, but for my child. With a shaky breath, I pulled out my laptop and began searching for apartments in different cities, places far enough away to feel like a fresh start, but not so far that it would be impossible to visit my friends when I needed them.

As I scrolled through listings, one city kept catching my eye: Cedar Valley. It was a small town nestled in the mountains, known for its tight-knit community and beautiful scenery. The photos showed tree-lined streets, charming little shops, and cosy homes with wide porches and blooming gardens. It looked peaceful and serene—everything I needed right now. And it was far enough away from here that I could truly start over.

I spent the next few days making calls, setting up appointments to view apartments, and getting my affairs in order. It felt surreal, as if I was watching someone else plan this move, someone braver and more decisive than I felt. But as the days passed, that tiny spark of resolve inside me grew brighter, fueling me with the determination to follow through with this plan.

The hardest part was telling my friends. When I broke the news to them over dinner one night, the expressions on their faces ranged from shock to sadness to reluctant acceptance. They had been my support system through everything—the betrayal, the divorce, the pregnancy—and the thought of leaving them behind filled me with a pang of guilt.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Sophia?” my best friend, Emma, asked, her brow furrowed with concern. “You don’t have to do this alone. We’re here for you, no matter what.”

“I know,” I said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “And I’m so grateful for that. But I need this. I need to be somewhere that doesn’t remind me of him, of everything that happened. I need to do this for me, and the baby.”

There was a long pause, and then she nodded, her expression softening. “If it’s what you need, then we’ll support you. Just promise you’ll stay in touch, okay? And visit often?”

“Of course,” I said, smiling through the tears that had started to form in my eyes. “You couldn’t keep me away if you tried.”

The rest of the evening was spent reminiscing, laughing, and crying. It was bittersweet, saying goodbye to the people who had been my lifeline during the hardest time of my life. But as I drove home that night, I felt a strange sense of peace. This move, this new beginning, felt right.

The day I packed up the last of my things was filled with a mix of emotions. As I walked through the empty rooms of the house Jason and I had once shared, memories flooded back—some sweet, others tinged with pain. I let myself feel them, let them wash over me, and then, one by one, I let them go. This was no longer my home. My home was wherever I chose to make it now.

The drive to Cedar Valley was long, winding through mountains and valleys that seemed to stretch on forever. With each mile, the tension in my shoulders eased a little more, and by the time I saw the welcome sign for Cedar Valley, I felt lighter than I had in months.

The apartment I had rented was in a small, two-story building near the edge of town, with a view of the mountains from the living room window. It was nothing fancy, but it was cosy, with warm wooden floors and a little balcony where I could sit and watch the sunset. As I carried the last of my boxes inside, I took a deep breath, letting the crisp mountain air fill my lungs. This was it. My new beginning.

That first night in Cedar Valley, I sat on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, sipping a cup of tea as the sun dipped below the horizon. The sky was a riot of colours—pinks, oranges, and purples blending in a breathtaking display. It felt like a promise, like the universe was telling me that everything was going to be okay. That I was exactly where I needed to be.

As I sat there, my hand resting on my growing belly, I made a promise to myself and my child. We were going to build a life here, a good life. We were going to find happiness, peace, and maybe even love again. This was our chance to start over, to write a new story. And this time, I was going to make sure it had a happy ending.