I was standing in the hallway of our cramped, two-bedroom apartment, the air thick with the scent of boiled carrots and baby powder. I was wearing my “uniform”: an oversized t-shirt stained with spit-up, gray sweatpants that had lost their elasticity, and a messy bun that was slowly unraveling, strand by greasy strand.
Kevin, on the other hand, looked like he had just stepped out of a GQ editorial. He was dressed in a charcoal Italian wool suit, a Rolex Submariner glinting under the harsh hallway light, and his hair was gelled into a stiff, perfect wave. On the bed behind him lay a Louis Vuitton suitcase—an extravagant gift I had bought him for our anniversary last year by secretly skipping lunches and saving grocery money for six months.
“Are you really leaving, Kevin?” I asked. My voice was calm. Too calm, perhaps. It was the stillness of a deep ocean before a tsunami, but he was too self-absorbed to notice the warning signs.
“I have to, Sarah,” he sighed, the sound exaggerated and theatrical. He threw a silk tie into the bag with a flourish. “Look at you. Look at this life. It’s… suffocating. You smell like breast milk and onions. You talk about diaper brands and coupons for detergent. You’re boring.”
The word hung in the air like a slap. Boring.
“I’m raising our son,” I said, gently patting Leo’s back as he fussed. “And I cook your meals. I iron those shirts you’re packing.”
“That’s the problem!” Kevin snapped, spinning around to face me. “I don’t want a cook. I want a partner. Someone with ambition. Someone with class. My career is exploding, Sarah. I’m the VP of Marketing now. I need to be seen with someone who enhances my brand, not someone who looks like she gave up on life.”
He pulled out his latest iPhone—the one I couldn’t afford—and shoved the screen in my face. A photo of a woman filled the display. She was stunning, I had to admit. Legs up to her neck, pouting lips injected to perfection, holding a glass of champagne on the deck of a yacht.
