Honestly, when I divorced my husband, I didn’t think I’d ever feel okay again. The grief was a shadow I wore like a second skin. I cried in the shower so my daughter wouldn’t hear me. I spent weekends binge-watching old sitcoms just to drown out the silence of my empty house. I lost weight without trying. I stopped wearing makeup. I stopped answering calls. I stopped living.
My sister, Lauren, pulled me out of that. She showed up every Friday night with Thai takeout and trashy magazines, just to get me to smile. She watched my daughter, Ava, when I needed to scream into a pillow. She reminded me who I was before the marriage, before the lies. “You’re still you, Nora,” she’d say. “He doesn’t get to take that from you.”
I believed her. I trusted her. I let her into the wreckage of my life because I thought she was the only person who would never betray me.
Or at least, I thought I did.
Six months had passed since the divorce. The papers were signed, the tears were dried, and I’d finally found my footing again. My therapist said I was making progress. Ava was smiling more. I’d even started flirting with the idea of dating again—nothing serious, just the idea that maybe I wasn’t completely broken.
It was my birthday. Thirty-seven. My closest friends were there, including coworkers from the marketing firm and a few old college buddies who hadn’t seen me since before the divorce. I’d rented out the back patio of a cozy wine bar downtown. String lights twinkled above us, jazz played in the background, and I felt—honestly, for the first time in ages—like myself.
I was holding a glass of rosé and laughing at something my friend Rachel had said when the music seemed to dip and the patio doors creaked open. I turned, smiling, expecting another guest.
Lauren. In a flowy red dress. Her hair in soft curls, makeup flawless. She looked stunning, as always.
And she was holding hands with him.
Scott.
My ex-husband.
He was wearing the navy blazer I bought him for our anniversary, the one he never wore because he said it felt “too stiff.” They stood there in the entrance like they belonged. Like they weren’t a walking, hand-holding betrayal.
