I stared at the table set for two, the lamb, the side dishes, the soup. Every dish was something he loved. Suddenly, the meal felt like a prop in a show I didn’t want to be in.
“I see,” I managed. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Well. I hope you all have a great time.”
“Sure,” I whispered. “Got it.”
When the call ended, the screen went dark, and something inside me dimmed with it. Three years of marriage, and his “whole family” apparently didn’t include me. I was the one who lived in his house, cooked his meals, paid bills… but not someone he saw sitting next to him on a plane.
I picked up the pan of lamb, carried it to the trash, and started scraping it out. My hands shook. The plate slipped, fell to the floor, and shattered. I stared at the broken pieces scattered at my feet and thought, That’s me. Shining and useful on the outside, but breaking the moment someone stopped caring.
The Friend Who Saw What I Didn’t Want to Admit
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed again.
The Mercer family group chat.
“Kids, same resort in Maui this year!” his mother wrote. “Don’t forget sunscreen, it’ll be really hot.”
Then came the stream of fireworks icons, palm trees, jokes about “the whole family being together again.” The same “whole family” that somehow never included me.
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