Tanya was 29 years old and her profile stated that she was a wellness influencer. She constantly posted selfies of Derek, always after some kind of cosmetic appointment—after getting Botox, eyelash extensions, or trying some new facial treatment.
One message in particular is burned into my memory.
She wrote: “I’m really looking forward to our couples massage on Saturday, darling. You deserve someone who takes care of herself.”
I didn’t confront Derek when he got out of the shower because I didn’t know what to say. I spoke to him when he got home from work that night.
I didn’t scream. I just looked at him and asked, “Who is Tanya?”
He stood motionless in the doorway, his jacket still half-on. For a second, I saw panic creep across his face. Then he sighed as if I were the one who had done something wrong.
“She’s someone who still cares about her appearance,” he said bluntly. “You used to be like that, Lena. You just stopped trying.”
“Did you give up trying?” I whispered. “You mean raising our kids? Working full-time? Keeping this family together while you chased validation from some Botox-obsessed kid?”
He had the audacity to shrug.
“I just want someone who puts in the effort,” he said. “You could have done it. It’s not that hard.”
