No More Pleading for You
On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine.
I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair.
"I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies.
I choose to believe him.
But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary.
Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place.
Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans.
That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him.
I look down at the cold food on the table.
Eric's words keep ringing in my head.
"I hate kissing."
"Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses."
Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately.
Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes.
The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands.
I nod quietly, saying nothing.
Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms.
"Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!"
In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore.
It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade.
Now, all I want is to find myself again.
I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design.
From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.