But I have to start from the beginning, because none of the ending makes sense without it.
I married Joel when I was twenty. It wasn’t some wild, romantic thing; it was arranged by expectation. Both of us came from old-money families, country-club circles where your last name opened doors and closed mouths.
Our parents vacationed together, sat on the same charity boards, swapped Christmas cards with studio portraits, and threw engagement parties for us before we’d even said yes.
Looking back, we were just two perfectly dressed puppets tied up in everyone else’s strings.
I walked down the aisle in a gown my mother picked out. I barely got a vote. Everyone called us the perfect match: two polished kids handed every advantage, sliding right into the future our families had already drawn up.
And for a long time, we played along.
Jade was born the same year we married, Drew two years later. For years Joel and I kept the performance going: professional holiday photos, charity galas, dinner parties, perfect lawn, perfect décor.
Behind closed doors, though, we were slowly suffocating.
