Chapter 2

Claire finally showed up for real, a week later, on Stephen's birthday.

Funny, wasn't it? Three years of marriage, and every single birthday was on me.

The first year, I baked him a cake from scratch. I spent a whole week practicing the frosting until my fingers were raw and blistered from the piping tips.

He barely glanced at it and muttered, "I don't like sweets," and disappeared into his study. So I sat alone at the table and ate that six-inch cake by myself. It was so sugary it made me nauseous, but I forced down every bite.

It wasn't because I wanted it. It was because I couldn't bring myself to toss it. That cake was a week of effort and blistered hands, and I couldn't let it go to waste.

The second year, I wised up. No more baking. I booked his favorite restaurant and snagged a window seat a month ahead. Halfway through dinner, he got a call. He said, "Something urgent at work," and left.

I finished the meal meant for two all by myself. When the waiter asked, "Ma'am, do you want to pack up the leftovers?" I shook my head.

Walking out, I saw a couple fighting across the street. The girl was crying, begging, "You promised you'd stay with me," and the guy shrugged her off.

I whispered, "Don't cry. He's not worth it." But then, who was I to say that? What right did I have to tell anyone he wasn't worth it, when I couldn't admit it to myself?

The third year, well, I didn't bother with anything. Because I finally understood: his birthday was never really mine to celebrate.

Claire showed up at the office. Later, the receptionist came over and whispered, "Emily, Ms. Sutton is seriously stunning. She has this aura about her. And when Mr. Reed saw her, he actually smiled. I swear, I've never seen him smile like that."

I looked down at the files in my hands and said quietly, "Got it."

The girl must've thought I was way too calm, so she asked, almost nervously, "Emily, aren't you angry?"

I looked up at her and gave a small smile. "What's the point of being upset?"

She was caught off guard.

I gave her shoulder a gentle pat. "Go on, get back to work."

What's the point of being angry? I'd been asking myself that for three years. The answer was always the same: it was pointless. It wouldn't make him look at me, wouldn't make him come home an hour earlier, and wouldn't make him remember my birthday.

So I learned not to get angry. It wasn't about being forgiving; it was about despair. I was so hopeless that I couldn't bother to be angry anymore.

When I got off work, I saw Claire outside the building, leaning against Stephen's car. She was wearing a cream-colored trench coat, her long hair falling over her shoulders.

When she smiled, her eyes crinkled at the corners. She really was stunning. She looked like a painting, like the moon, like all those beautiful things I could never quite reach.

And me? I stood in the shadows across the street. I was a spectator outside the frame, a place the moonlight never reached. I was someone so insignificant that I didn't deserve a place in this story.

She saw Stephen step out of the revolving door and quickly walked over, handing him a beautifully wrapped box. "Stephen, happy birthday."

Stephen took the box and glanced at it. A small smile appeared on his lips. It wasn't much, but it made his whole face gentle, like a ray of spring sunlight breaking through the ice. So rare, so precious, and gone in an instant.

I had never seen that kind of softness on his face before. With me, he was always distant, cold, and emotionless, like a frozen lake.

I spent three years tiptoeing across that ice, afraid I would crack the surface. But underneath, there was never any water. There were only layers of ice, getting colder the deeper you went.

"You still remember," he said.

"Of course," Claire replied, tilting her head. "There are some things I never forget."

It sounded like she was talking about his birthday, but both of them knew she meant so much more.

There were things she could never forget. Like the twenty years they had grown up together. Like the almost romance in college. Like the reason she left without saying goodbye. And now, coming back only to find him married to someone else.

But her eyes made it clear she didn't care at all. In her mind, I was a placeholder, someone keeping her seat warm. The spot was hers by right, and she could reclaim it whenever she pleased.

When she looked at me, there was no hostility or jealousy. There was only a casual, superior indifference. Like someone passing by a meaningless sign on the road, their gaze sweeping over it without a second thought or memory.

I dropped my gaze and headed for the subway station.

After a few steps, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Stephen: [Not coming home for dinner tonight.]

I typed a few words but then deleted them. In the end, I replied: "Okay.]

I didn't ask where he was going, who he was with, or what time he'd be back. I used to ask, because I still had hope. But now, I didn't bother anymore. That hope was long gone.

That night, Stephen didn't come home until three in the morning. He must've thought I was asleep. He opened the door quietly, slipped off his shoes, and tiptoed into the bathroom.

I was lying there, wide awake, listening to the sound of running water. Suddenly, memories of our wedding night came flooding back.

He'd done the exact same thing back then, locked himself in the bathroom for what felt like forever.

When he finally came out, I was sitting on the edge of the bed in my pajamas, nervously twisting the hem of my nightgown, my heart thumping like crazy.

He glanced at me, his eyes brushing past my face like I was nothing more than a lamp in the corner. Then he said, "You should get some sleep," his voice flat, before heading straight to the study.

On our wedding night, his brand-new wife was waiting for him on the bed, but he chose the study instead.

That night, I cried, not the loud, messy kind, but the silent kind, with my face buried in the pillow, not daring to make a sound.

I was scared he'd hear me. Scared he'd think I was being pathetic. Scared he'd have less reason to come back to this room.

But tonight, I didn't cry. I rolled over, pulled up the covers, and closed my eyes. At three in the morning, the city was so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat.

Every beat reminded me, I was still alive, but I wasn't really me anymore. I had become a shadow, a prop and "Mrs. Reed." Not even a real person. I had snuffed out every bit of my own light to become invisible in his world.

But once a background, always a background. No one ever fell in love with the scenery.

*****

The thing that finally broke me wasn't some dramatic betrayal or a screaming match. It was a dinner, a dinner he promised he'd come to, but didn't.

That day was my mom's birthday.

A week before, I'd asked Stephen if he could come with me to the Warren residence for the celebration.

He agreed. On the day, he actually looked at me twice, something he almost never did, and asked, "What does your mom like? I can have my assistant prepare something."

I told him not to bother and being there was enough.

He nodded, barely noticeable, but I held onto that moment for a long time. It was one of those rare times he did something for me simply because I asked, not because he had to.

On the day of the dinner, I took half a day off work. I went home, slipped into a new dress, and put on some light makeup.

Right before leaving, I glanced in the mirror. The woman staring back at me was twenty-six, with smooth skin, soft eyes, and a tiny mole at the corner of her mouth when she smiled.

Honestly, I wasn't ugly. So why, after three whole years, had he never really looked at me? Was it because I wasn't pretty enough? Not interesting enough? Or was it because I wasn't Claire?

I showed up at the Warren residence right on time. Mom was busy in the kitchen, and Dad was in the living room with his newspaper.

When I walked in alone, Mom glanced past me, as if expecting Stephen to walk in with me. "Where's Stephen?" she asked.

"Something came up at work. He'll be here later," I replied, forcing a smile.

Mom didn't say anything and turned back to the kitchen. She tried to hide the pain in her eyes, but I caught it anyway. Her lips twitched. Her hands paused for a moment. Then she went back to cooking like nothing had happened.

A mother could always tell if her daughter was happy and if she had married the right guy.

Mom kept quiet because she didn't want to make me feel worse. And I kept quiet too because I didn't want her to worry. Both of us, separated by the kitchen door, acted out the same old play: "I'm fine."

By seven, Stephen still hadn't shown up. Eight o'clock came and went. At nine, Mom brought out the last dish, Dad's favorite. She set it on the table, wiped her hands, and said, "Let's not wait any longer. The food's getting cold."

I took a bite of the steak. After a couple of chews, I couldn't swallow. It wasn't that the steak tasted bad. I couldn't force myself anymore.

For three years, I had swallowed every excuse. "Wait a little longer, and he'll come back. Wait, and he'll finally see me. Wait, and he'll change," I told myself that over and over until I believed it.

But tonight, at my mom's birthday dinner, with dishes going cold and getting reheated again and again, and my parents' eyes shifting from hope to quiet heartbreak, I finally understood, he was never coming. Not ever.

At ten, my phone buzzed with a message from Stephen: [Something came up. I can't make it. Tell your mom happy birthday for me.]

I stared at that message for a full three minutes. Then I typed back: [You tell her yourself.]

He probably didn't expect that. After a pause, he sent back a question mark.

I didn't reply.

After leaving the Warren residence, I didn't go home. Instead, I sat for a long time on a bench outside the building.

It was an autumn night. The moon was big and round, and the stars were shining bright. I tilted my head back and stared up at the sky, my mind completely empty.

I wasn't having some big epiphany. I wasn't thinking about anything at all. I felt like a machine that had been running nonstop for years, finally coming to a stop. Not broken. Burned out. Nothing left to give. Nothing left to move me.

My phone buzzed nonstop. Stephen called five times, but I didn't answer. Finally, he sent a message: [Emily, are you done with your drama?]

Drama. That was what he thought I was doing. For three years, he'd bailed on me more times than I could count, and I never once complained.

He went out to eat with Claire, took her shopping, to the doctor, and helped her move. I accepted it all. He forgot our anniversary, my birthday, and every promise he ever made. I always smiled and pretended it didn't bother me.

But today, because I didn't say "happy birthday" for him, suddenly I was the one causing drama.

Turned out, in his mind, my boundaries were simple. As long as I did exactly what he wanted, everything was fine. The moment I did not, I was being difficult.

I was only there to please him. My feelings didn't matter. My pain wasn't worth a second thought.