You have a paragraph in the drafts. It is true. It is late. It is unusable. If you send it, you will feel better for twelve minutes and worse for a year, which is a terrible exchange rate even by family-court standards.

The hour, in order

Put the phone face down. Not on silent. Face down. The glowing rectangle is a slot machine that pays out in exhibits.
Say out loud what actually happened. To a wall is fine. This is the missed weekend. This is humiliation. This is Thursday. You are allowed to hurt. You do not have to write a sequel.
Do something with your body that is not typing. Walk. Dishes. A shower. The body wanted a job. Give it one that cannot be forwarded to a lawyer.
If you must write, write it here: a note that does not have a Send button. Tomorrow morning, read it. You will either send two factual sentences, or you will have done the adult thing, which is nothing.
If a child is in the other room, they do not need the speech. They need you slightly boring. Boring is a gift. You will not feel like a gift. That is irrelevant.
If you already sent it: you are a mammal. There is no time machine. The next hour still exists. Do not send the second paragraph explaining the first. That is how fires apply for promotions.

In the morning

If contact is on the calendar, keep it. Bring food. Leave the case in the car. If contact is not on the calendar, do not invent some. Inventing contact at 1 a.m. is how hurt puts on a costume and calls itself love.

If you want the story behind the rule, read Don’t send the 11:40 text. If you want a human being instead of a website, start at Help. If you are in immediate danger, or someone else is, skip all of this and use the emergency number where you live.