He started coming home later.
He started protecting his phone.
He started criticizing everything about me.
My clothes were “too safe.”
My career in publishing wasn’t “ambitious enough.”
I laughed too loudly at dinner parties.
I asked too many questions.
I became, according to him, “emotionally exhausting.”
The sentence that finally destroyed me came on a Sunday morning.
I was making pancakes.
Mason walked into the kitchen, watched me for several seconds, and said,
“You’re a wonderful person, Claire. But you’re not the woman I picture beside the man I’m becoming.”
I turned off the stove.
“What does that even mean?”
He sighed as though I were making his life difficult by requiring an explanation.
“It means I’ve changed.”
“No. It means you’ve decided you’re better than me.”
“That’s exactly the kind of reaction I’m talking about.”
Three weeks later, I discovered Vanessa.
Not her name.
Just her existence.
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