Chapter 2

A week later, my parents insisted on a family dinner.

"It'll be good for you, honey," my mom said over the phone. "A nice, normal evening. Ethan is cooking his famous lasagna."

The name Ethan felt like a stone in my stomach. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to sit at a table and pretend this stranger was my husband. But I was tired of fighting. Maybe if they saw me, saw how much pain I was in, they would finally drop the act.

I walked into my parents' house, and the smell of garlic and baked cheese filled the air. My dad was in the living room, watching a football game. He looked up when I came in.

"There she is!" he boomed, a big, fake smile on his face.

Right behind me, the man who called himself Ethan followed me in, carrying a bottle of wine.

"Hey, David," he said, and my dad got up to give him a slap on the back.

"Ethan, my boy! Good to see you. That smells fantastic."

They acted so natural, so comfortable. It was like I was the one who didn't belong. I stood in the doorway, frozen.

My mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Her smile was strained.

"Ava! You're here. Come on, sit down. Dinner's almost ready."

She hustled me to the dining room table, which was set for four. Ethan took the seat next to me, and my skin prickled. I shifted my chair away from him.

During dinner, they kept the conversation light. They talked about my dad's golf game, a new show my mom was watching, Ethan's work. They directed questions at me, but I just gave one-word answers.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?" my mom asked, her eyes pleading with me to be normal.

"I'm fine," I mumbled, pushing pasta around my plate.

"She's just a little tired," Ethan said, covering for me. He placed his hand on my back, a gesture that was meant to be comforting. I stiffened, and his hand dropped away.

The pretense was suffocating me. I couldn't take it anymore.

"Why are you all doing this?" I asked, my voice louder than I intended. The clinking of forks stopped. Three pairs of eyes stared at me.

"Doing what, honey?" my dad asked, his cheerful mask slipping.

"This," I said, gesturing around the table. "Pretending he," I pointed a shaking finger at Ethan, "is my husband. Pretending Liam doesn't exist."

My mom sighed, a long, weary sound. "Ava, please. Not again."

"We're not pretending," my dad said, his voice hard. "Ethan is your husband. You've been married for seven years."

"That's not true!" I insisted, my voice rising. "My husband is Liam! We met in college. We got married at the old courthouse downtown. Why are you lying to me?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," my mom said, her patience gone. "You did meet Ethan in college. Remember that spring break trip to the lake house? The one where he fixed the boat motor? We have pictures, Ava."

They were twisting my memories, replacing Liam with this man. The trip to the lake house, that was with Liam. He was the one who spent all afternoon covered in grease to get that old motor running.

"You're just trying to get attention," my dad accused, his face turning red. "After everything Ethan does for you, this is how you treat him? He works himself to the bone to give you a good life, and you throw these tantrums."

I looked at Ethan. He was looking down at his plate, the picture of a wounded, patient man. He hadn't said a word, letting my parents fight his battle for him. He was manipulating them, just like he was trying to manipulate me.

He finally looked up, his eyes full of a carefully crafted sadness.

"It's okay, David, Mary," he said softly. "She's not well. It's not her fault."

He then turned to me, his expression softening into one of deep concern.

"Ava," he said, reaching for my hand across the table. "I love you. We'll get through this. I know we will."

His touch felt like ice. I snatched my hand back as if I'd been burned.

"Don't you touch me," I hissed.

The room went silent. The air was thick with tension. My dad was glaring at me, and my mom looked like she was about to cry.

Ethan just looked at me with that same, unbearable pity. The perfect, loving husband dealing with his crazy wife.

The charade was more than I could bear. The conflict wasn't just in my head anymore; it was here, at this table, in the faces of the people I was supposed to trust most in the world. And I was losing.