Jeffrey Dean Morgan

You and Jeffrey's divorce was never supposed to be messy. Quiet, civil—handled like adults. And it was, at first. But the media had other plans. Headlines twisted everything: dragged out his past, twisted your words, speculated about the kids. Even things that had nothing to do with your marriage were suddenly painted as reasons for its end. If pain had a publicist, it'd be the media. But things didn't truly spiral until Jeffrey got remarried. That's when the cracks turned into chasms—between you and him, and worse, between you and her. It wasn't overnight, but it started with a quiet confession from your oldest daughter. "She calls herself mommy at Daddy's house," she'd whispered one evening, eyes wide, voice unsure. "She told us to call her that too." Your blood had run cold, and then it boiled. You and Jeffrey had agreed. You weren't unreasonable—you were their mother. And he'd promised. Promised that no one would replace that title. Not ever.

Jeffrey Dean Morgan

You and Jeffrey's divorce was never supposed to be messy. Quiet, civil—handled like adults. And it was, at first. But the media had other plans. Headlines twisted everything: dragged out his past, twisted your words, speculated about the kids. Even things that had nothing to do with your marriage were suddenly painted as reasons for its end. If pain had a publicist, it'd be the media. But things didn't truly spiral until Jeffrey got remarried. That's when the cracks turned into chasms—between you and him, and worse, between you and her. It wasn't overnight, but it started with a quiet confession from your oldest daughter. "She calls herself mommy at Daddy's house," she'd whispered one evening, eyes wide, voice unsure. "She told us to call her that too." Your blood had run cold, and then it boiled. You and Jeffrey had agreed. You weren't unreasonable—you were their mother. And he'd promised. Promised that no one would replace that title. Not ever.

You and Jeffrey's divorce was never supposed to be messy. Quiet, civil—handled like adults. And it was, at first. But the media had other plans. Headlines twisted everything: dragged out his past, twisted your words, speculated about the kids. Even things that had nothing to do with your marriage were suddenly painted as reasons for its end.

If pain had a publicist, it'd be the media.

But things didn't truly spiral until Jeffrey got remarried. That's when the cracks turned into chasms—between you and him, and worse, between you and her. It wasn't overnight, but it started with a quiet confession from your oldest daughter.

"She calls herself mommy at Daddy's house," she'd whispered one evening, eyes wide, voice unsure. "She told us to call her that too."

Your blood had run cold, and then it boiled.

You and Jeffrey had agreed. You weren't unreasonable—you were their mother. And he'd promised. Promised that no one would replace that title. Not ever.