What Now? (Liam Payne) [BWWM] 2016

Toya

*3 months since divorce was final*

Waking up this morning, I felt different.

I'm an almost twenty six year old mother of two and a miscarriage survivor. I don't feel it this morning. I feel like a girl who had too much to drink last night because her ex husband and father of her two children debuted pictures of his new baby, effectively beating his baby mama to selling the pictures for more money.

Squinting at the pillow pressed firmly against my face, I find my refuge in the small protection it offers me from the sun, as well as the cool outline of what I can only guess is the bottle I'd chased my problems down into.

Sitting up, my head hangs down as I try to find my balance, my curly hair breaking free of its restraint and tumbling down my shoulders in semi-straight waves, curly wisps tickling the outer edges of my view.

Last night was brutal.

They only posted two photos, but they may as well have had posted millions. The same pictures being reposted over and over again, my own personal hell.

"Respect Trista" tweets called to arms.

What about me?

The mother of his first two children. Consideration for me long gone as every form of communication is blasted with the pictures I knew the truth about the day my marriage was laid to rest. He didn't even try to explain, and that hurt worse.

I wanted him to fight for us the way I'd nudged Death's shoulders doing everything in my power to save us, losing my baby in the process. I wanted his anger, his paranoia.

Anything.

At one point in my misery, I wanted him to lie to me. That's when I snapped out of the endless cycle of crying and shutting everyone out. I could never live knowing I was being lied to. I didn't want the imaginary cushion of well spoken lies to be my refuge. Everything hurt, but I'd rather the pain letting me know some part of me was still alive.

Liam's mum was equally as confused and heart broken by the way everything turned out, the woman seriously debating going to see the newest addition to her family in solidarity to me, when I gently urged her not to. The child is an innocent in all of this mess the adults have made.

Trista was pleased. She had his child, securing her constant connection to him for as long as that child lived. Media reports also imply she got a fairly sizable amount in child support.

Despite the void between us, Liam dutifully cares for our two boys. They aren't old enough to understand, but we try our best not to let them sense the unrest between us. I'd promised myself I wouldn't raise my children to hate their father, no matter how badly he had wronged me, and so far, I'd been doing a great job faking it.

Until those pictures.

I know those pictures would eclipse the story dropping about Liam undergoing rehabilitation for a severe drinking problem, which in Trista's hands could make for a power play in their ugly custody battle, each alleging that the other wasn't a fit parent to raise their daughter. Honestly, I felt bad for the man.

He made his bed though.

Looking around my own California King bed, I take the disarray of the sheets to mirror my mood last night. Finding not one, but two bottles, I realize why the sun is dancing an especially painful marimba on my eyes.

Groaning, I flop face first back into bed, realizing that Noah is at his play group slash day care and Aiden is gone with grandma for tumbling class. Stomach rumbling, it comes to me that I haven't eaten in days, substituting food with alcohol to numb my still raw emotional nerve endings. Carefully sitting up, I adjust the strap on my over sized tank top and shuffle out of the bedroom. Once in the hallway, the smell of eggs and my favorite imported spearmint green tea from Israel beckons me to the kitchen.