I took my 4-year-old triplets to my millionaire ex-husband’s wedding and his family’s reaction was chilling

I can choose what I do with the rage it left behind. Today, I let him stay. I make dinner. I breathe. It isn’t forgiveness, not yet. It’s something quieter: the decision to stop cutting myself on the past, and let ordinary love—imperfect, clumsy, real—be enough for now.