My husband’s best friend bet him I’d cry when they served me divorce papers at Christmas dinner. Women are so predictable. He laughed. I signed immediately, then handed them a wrapped present. Their faces dropped when they opened it.
“Do you think she’ll cry when she reads them?” His best friend chuckled from the living room.
They didn’t realize I was in the hallway holding a tray of drinks, feet frozen, breath halted, pulse roaring in my ears.
Brandon’s voice followed—light, smug. “She’ll crumble. Women always do.”
That was five days before Christmas.
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But this story didn’t start there. Not really. The unraveling began long before they wagered on my tears. It started with laughter—always laughter.
“You know I could leave you tomorrow, right?” Brandon would joke at dinner parties, eyes twinkling with faux affection as he rubbed my shoulder.
Everyone chuckled. So did I. But inside, something shriveled, tightening like a knot behind my ribs. People didn’t see the weight of those words, not how often they came or how easily.
They didn’t notice how I stopped wearing my red dress after he scoffed, “Trying too hard, aren’t we?” Or how I started checking his tone before I spoke in public, praying my sentence didn’t shift into a monologue about my flaws.
He never shouted, never raised a hand. Brandon was smarter than that. His words were blades dipped in honey.
“Don’t embarrass me in front of my boss.”
“You know you’re lucky I’m still here.”
“I mean, come on. What else would you do without me?”
Each comment arrived with a grin, a chuckle, the clink of his whiskey glass. I’d smile back. I had learned to smile.
At first, I defended him to friends.
“He’s just sarcastic,” I told Jenny—my childhood best friend—after she caught one of his remarks at a barbecue. “He doesn’t mean it like that.”
She didn’t look convinced. “He doesn’t have to mean it. You look like you’re disappearing.”
Maybe I was.
I stopped posting on social media. I started missing book club meetings. Calls from my sister went unanswered more often than not. My world became smaller, centered around Brandon’s moods, his rhythms, his thresholds.
He liked control—subtle control.
When my mother came to visit, he made sure to remind me how messy I’d left the kitchen, loudly.
When I forgot to pick up dry cleaning, he’d mutter under his breath, “Useless.” Just loud enough for me to hear. Just soft enough to deny.
Still, I convinced myself this was marriage. Maybe not a fairy tale, but stability. Longevity.
At least he didn’t cheat.
At least he wasn’t violent.
At least.
Then came the gala.
We were two glasses of champagne into a company fundraiser when he turned to me, eyes glazed with alcohol and contempt. “You’re just like the rest of them,” he muttered under his breath as the CEO walked by. “Always wanting more, always clinging. Needy.”
My mouth went dry. My face stiffened with the familiar flush of shame. I didn’t ask what triggered it. I rarely did anymore.
When we got home, he slammed the door and went straight for the liquor cabinet. I followed him with measured steps, poured him another drink, and handed it to him with a smile I had practiced to perfection.
“You know,” I said gently, “maybe we should sign something, just in case. You always joke about leaving. Why not make it official?”
He laughed—a deep, careless laugh. “You really think I need a prenup to protect my fantasy football winnings?”
He scribbled his name on a napkin beside him. “There. Go get it notarized if you’re that scared.”
Then he passed out on the couch.
He forgot about that napkin by morning.
But I didn’t.
I had it notarized within twenty-four hours. Jenny helped. She didn’t ask questions—just looked at me with quiet understanding and handed me a pen.
I folded that document and slid it into a fireproof envelope, stored it in the back of a filing cabinet beneath a folder labeled Tax Receipts 2020. Then I emailed a scanned copy to a private email Jenny had set up for me years ago, just in case.
That night, I cooked dinner like normal. I asked Brandon about his day. I laughed at his impressions of his co-workers. I cleared the dishes and wiped down the counters while he scrolled on his phone.
He didn’t notice the way I had started looking at him.
Not with fear.
Not with anger.
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