We had been married for exactly one decade. Ten years is a peculiar milestone. It’s a duration long enough that the edges of your former, independent self begin to blur and fade, replaced by a collective identity. It’s a silent, insidious erasure that no bridal magazine ever prepares you for—how you can slowly hemorrhage your own personality inside the confines of a marriage without ever feeling the wound.
Caspian wasn’t a monster. Honestly, dealing with a monster would have required less psychological gymnastics. Monsters are overt; they leave visible bruises. Caspian, conversely, possessed a weaponized charisma. He was frustratingly inconsistent, charming to a fault, and pathologically allergic to taking accountability for his actions. He was the breed of husband who never once raised his vocal register, yet possessed a surgical ability to manipulate a conversation until you found yourself apologizing for his mistakes.
The structural fractures in our foundation had been spider-webbing for years. I had simply earned a master’s degree in applying emotional spackle.
I held a part-time position as a medical records coordinator. It lacked prestige, but it provided a steady drip of income. I managed the chaotic theater of our domestic life: the labyrinthine school schedules, the unending grocery runs, the pediatric dental appointments, the signed permission slips, the elaborately themed birthday parties, and the terrifying fevers that always spiked at two in the morning.
Caspian managed his career. He treated his role as a regional sales director for a massive logistics firm with the reverence of a devout zealot. The salary was robust. The hours were punishing. The out-of-state travel was constant.
And somewhere, hidden within the sterile walls of airport lounges and corporate hotel suites, he had carved out the time to find someone else.
