No More Pleading for You

On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine.

I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair.

"I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies.

I choose to believe him.

But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary.

Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place.

Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans.

That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him.

I look down at the cold food on the table.

Eric's words keep ringing in my head.

"I hate kissing."

"Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses."

Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately.

Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes.

The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands.

I nod quietly, saying nothing.

Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms.

"Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!"

In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore.

It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade.

Now, all I want is to find myself again.

I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design.

From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.

"Are you honestly ready to leave your husband and daughter behind?" the HR manager from the design academy teased.

I stared at my phone screen, my thoughts a storm of confusion.

Suddenly, Layla Sinclair's voice pierced the silence. "I want to call Shirley 'Mama,'" she said.

She looked up at me, not a flicker of doubt in her eyes.

"She feels more like a mom than you do. She even buys me ice cream."

I tried to speak, but no words came out.

Layla wanted to call Shirley "Mama", as if to wipe away my place in her life completely.

A sharp, burning pain suddenly seized my heart.

A decade of careful nurturing seemed to mean less than a single pint of ice cream.

Because of Layla's sensitive stomach, I'd always kept her away from cold treats. But somehow, she had forgotten.

That night, I was the one carrying her to the emergency room as anxiety gripped me with every step.

Meanwhile, Eric Sinclair and Shirley Huxley—the very ones to blame—were out partying at a nightclub.

Once Layla got better, the only things she remembered were the sweetness of the ice cream and Shirley's kindness. She