Chapter 1

The scent of coffee, usually my morning comfort, felt thin today. Five years. Five birthdays he’d managed to be “swamped with work.” No card, no whispered “happy birthday” before he left. Just the usual, “Money’s in your account, get yourself something nice, Sarah.” But Chloe Thompson, his childhood friend, her birthday twin to mine, always got the full Ethan Davis production. He’d be planning it for weeks. “She’s different, Sarah,” he’d say, that familiar note of pity in his voice. “She’s got no one else.” Chloe. The sole survivor of that horrific campus shooting years ago. It had made her a permanent fixture in Ethan’s heart, a wound he constantly tended. I saw her Instagram post last year. Chloe, beaming, a slice of cake in her hand, planting a kiss on Ethan’s cheek. My comment then, typed with shaking fingers: “He’s all yours, honey. Enjoy the leftovers.” He deleted it, of course.

Tonight, the clock hadn't even struck midnight. Ethan grabbed his phone, a quick mumble about a work call, and disappeared into the master bathroom. I slipped out of bed, my feet cold on the hardwood floor, and pressed my ear to the door. His voice, usually flat with me, was dripping with a tenderness I hadn’t heard in years. “Of course I didn’t forget. I’d always be the first to wish you a happy birthday.” A familiar bitterness rose in my throat, gritty and sharp. It had been grinding away at me for five years. Today was Chloe’s birthday. And mine. He’d never spent a single one with me since we said “I do.” That day was always a whirlwind of urgent, unmovable commitments for him. We’d fought. I’d cried. I’d pleaded. I actually thought this year might be different. Two weeks ago, while he was supposedly looking up caterers for a "client event," he’d shown me a picture on his phone. A stunning, silver sequined gown. Backless, fishtail hem. “What do you think of this dress?” he’d asked, almost casually. I’d laughed. “Where on earth would I wear something like that, Ethan?” He’d looked surprised. “Your birthday, of course. It’s gorgeous. Who cares what anyone else thinks?” A tiny, stupid seed of hope had planted itself in my chest. He was usually so secretive about Chloe’s birthday arrangements. This felt… open. Brazen, even. Maybe, just maybe, this time it was for me. I’d even started planning how to be the gracious wife. Invite Chloe. After all, her family was gone. But his words through the bathroom door shattered that fragile hope. He mentioned me, his tone dismissive. “Sarah Miller isn’t a toddler. Does she really need me to hold her hand?” Then, a sigh, heavy with manufactured martyrdom. “She just doesn’t get it. The more she pushes me away from Chloe, the more I need to be there for her.” My nails dug into my palms. A chill spread through me. Was wanting your husband on your birthday such an outrageous demand? He sighed again, deeper this time. “She’s becoming so unsympathetic.” I couldn’t hear Chloe’s reply, but Ethan chuckled. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. And wear that dress. You’ll look amazing.” The last thread holding me together finally snapped. My husband, Ethan, always so eager to please his parents, so careful to toe the line. Marriage seemed to have triggered his rebellious phase. And I was the unfortunate target.