The Day I Stopped Being Your Wife

For twenty long years, I had been nothing more than a shadow in my own home—the wife no one noticed, the mother no one seemed to remember.

On my forty-fifth birthday, a cake sat on the kitchen counter. For a fleeting second, my chest swelled with hope. Maybe, just maybe, someone had thought of me.

But then Adrian’s voice cut through the moment like ice.

“That’s for Bianca. It’s her birthday today. Don’t you know how to ask before assuming?”

Bianca—my childhood friend, now the woman who had stolen my husband’s heart. They remembered her. Not me.