The Discarded Wife & Mother

Sera's POV

The Monet was fake. I knew it the second Mrs. Whitmore's perfectly manicured fingers lifted the gilt frame, and the light hit wrong. Everything about today felt wrong. My wedding ring caught on my glove as I reached for my loupe, and I wondered if Jonathan even remembered what day it was. Eight years. Eight years since we'd said forever, and here I was, holding my breath while society's finest pretended not to watch me work.

"Sera, darling, you simply must tell me your secret," Mrs. Whitmore cooed, her voice like honey over broken glass. "How do you manage it all? The career, the husband, that adorable little boy of yours?"

I kept my eyes on the painting. Water lilies. Fake water lilies that someone had lovingly crafted to fool collectors with more money than sense. "There's no secret, Mrs. Whitmore. Just good lighting and patience."

"Oh, but you're being modest!" Mrs. Pemberton joined us, her pearls clicking against each other like tiny bones. "Jonathan was just telling Richard at the club how lucky he is. Said you handle everything at home so beautifully while still working at that little museum of yours."

Little museum. Right.

My fingers trembled slightly as I adjusted the UV light. The brushstrokes were almost perfect. Almost. But there, in the corner where the artist got lazy, thinking no one would look too closely. They always got lazy in the corners.

"Speaking of Jonathan," Mrs. Whitmore leaned in, her perfume thick enough to choke on. "Is it true what I heard? About him bringing that stunning assistant of his to the Carmichael dinner? What's her name again?"

"Vivienne." The name tasted bitter. Like old coffee. Like disappointment.

"That's right! Vivienne. Such a help to him, I'm sure. These days, men need all the support they can get in business."

I heard Mrs. Pemberton's sharp intake of breath. "Oh, I didn't mean... I mean, of course you support him too, dear. From home. Where it matters."

"The painting." I straightened up, pulling off my gloves with more force than necessary. "It's a reproduction. Probably 1950s. Good quality, but the cadmium yellow is wrong for Monet's period."

Mrs. Whitmore's face fell like a soufflé in a thunderstorm. "But... but the seller assured me..."

"I'm sure they did." I packed my equipment carefully. Each tool had its place. Unlike everything else in my life, apparently. "I'll email you the full authentication report by tomorrow."

"Such a perfectionist," Mrs. Pemberton whispered to someone behind me. "No wonder she and Jonathan are so happy. She keeps everything running like clockwork."

Clockwork. Is that what we called it when your husband forgot your anniversary for the third year running? When his assistant knew his schedule better than his wife did? When your son's bedtime stories came from mommy because daddy was always at another business dinner?

"Ladies." I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "If you'll excuse me, I have another appointment."

"Of course! Don't let us keep you from that perfect life of yours!" Mrs. Whitmore's laugh tinkled like breaking champagne flutes.

I made it to the elevator before the words really hit. Perfect life. They saw what I let them see. The authentic Sera Blackwood, wife of Jonathan Blackwood, old money, new success. Mother to Oliver, the sweetest eight year old who still believed in magic and happy endings. Part-time art authenticator who worked "for fun" because surely Jonathan provided everything we needed.

The elevator doors reflected my face back at me. When had I gotten so good at spotting fakes that I'd become one myself?

My phone buzzed. Not Jonathan. Never Jonathan anymore. Just a reminder from my calendar that Oliver's school play started in forty-five minutes. Peter Pan. He was playing Michael, the youngest Darling child. The one who still believed in flying.

"Hold the door!" A young woman rushed in, carrying a massive bouquet of red roses. Anniversary roses. The kind husbands send to wives they remember to love.

"Beautiful flowers," I said, because that's what you say.

"Thank you! Eight years today. My husband never forgets." She glowed like those fake water lilies under UV light. All surface shine.

Eight years. I wondered if Jonathan even knew. Probably not. Vivienne would have reminded him if it mattered. She reminded him of everything else. Client birthdays. Dinner reservations. School plays.

School plays.

My heart stopped. No. No, he wouldn't have. He promised. Oliver had been practicing his lines for weeks, flying around the house with a towel cape, crashing into furniture while I tried to explain that Peter Pan flew with fairy dust, not momentum.

The elevator dinged. Ground floor. Reality.

I checked my phone again. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing but that calendar reminder ticking down. Forty-three minutes now.

"Have a lovely anniversary," the woman called out as I practically ran for the exit.

"You too," I managed, already calculating traffic patterns. If I took Bush Street instead of Pine, avoided the construction on Polk...

But even as I ran towards my car, something cold settled in my stomach. A feeling I'd been pushing down for months. Years, maybe. The same feeling I got when I spotted a forgery. That moment when you realize what you're looking at isn't what it claims to be.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was Jonathan.

"Running late to Oliver's play. Save me a seat? Vivienne's driving, we'll meet you there."

We. When had they become a we?

My hands shook as I unlocked the car. Forty-one minutes. I could make it. I had to make it. Oliver would scan the audience for my face, and I would not be another empty seat in his life.

But as I started the engine, I couldn't shake the image of those fake water lilies. Beautiful. Almost perfect.

Almost.