From Heartbroken to Untouchable

I've been married to Elliot Graves, the mafia drug lord in NYC, for the past eight years.

But today—on our wedding anniversary—I received a photo of him with my best friend, Lila, celebrating as if they were the ones married. And in her arms was my son, Owen.

I stared at the image, then typed out two words in reply.

“How perfect.”

Half a hour later, Elliot stormed through the front door. His voice thundered through the hallway.

“Why do you always have to be so bitchy to Lila?”

Owen, my own little boy, shoved at my leg and glared. “Bad Momma,” he said. “I wish Miss Lila was my real mommy.”

I didn’t flinch.

I simply walked over to the drawer, pulled out the crisp stack of papers I’d long prepared, and dropped them on the table with a quiet finality.

“Alright,” I said, my voice calm. “It’s all my fault. Now, can I go?”

1

On my eighth wedding anniversary, my best friend decided to send me a gift.

A photo.

She was draped across a sofa, a wine glass in hand, smiling like a woman who owned the world.

My son, Owen, was curled up beside her.

And my husband, Elliot, sat on her other side—his hand resting far too comfortably on her thigh.

They looked like a happy little family.

I stared at the image, then typed out two words in reply.

“How perfect.”

Half a hour later, Elliot stormed through the front door. His voice thundered through the hallway.

“Why do you always have to be so bitchy? Always mocking people, always blaming everyone but yourself!”

I didn’t flinch.

Owen, my own little boy, shoved at my leg and glared. “Bad Momma,” he said. “I wish Miss Lila was my real mommy.”

The ache in my chest didn’t even surprise me anymore.

I walked over to the drawer, pulled out the crisp stack of papers I’d been holding onto for far too long, and dropped them on the table with a quiet finality.

“Alright,” I said, my voice calm. “It’s all my fault. Now, can I go?”

…

I’d kept the divorce papers tucked away in the drawer for as long as I could remember.

Just in case.

Not because I didn’t love Elliot or I didn’t want our family to work.

I wasn’t a fool. I’d noticed the signs. Elliot’s distance, the way his eyes lingered too long on the phone or the sudden gaps in his schedule he never quite explained.

But still, he was always a good father to Owen.

And, for a while, he was good to me, too.

So I gave him grace.

A second chance. Maybe even a third. And because today was our eighth wedding anniversary, I told myself to wait—just one more time. To see what he’d do or if he’d choose us.

Elliot had said he’d pick Owen up early from school, then come straight home.

So I cooked. My signature dish—roasted beef, the one he