Chapter 3

The dinner was a blur of Mark's attentiveness to Chloe and my growing sense of invisibility.

My mind kept replaying other moments, small cuts I'd ignored.

Like the chili cheese fries.

A few months ago, I'd bought some from a food truck, craving them.

Mark had recoiled when I tried to get into his meticulously clean car.

"Absolutely not, Sarah. Those things are a mess. Not in my car."

I'd eaten them on a park bench, feeling foolish.

Two weeks later, Chloe posted an Instagram story.

A selfie. In Mark's passenger seat. Grinning, holding up a half-eaten carton of chili cheese fries, sauce smudged on her chin.

The caption: "Bestie spoiling me! @MarkLaw"

When I'd quietly asked Mark about it, he'd brushed it off.

"Oh, Chloe was having a bad day. It's just fries, Sarah. Don't be sensitive."

It wasn't just fries.

It was the casual dismissal, the clear double standard.

His communication, or lack of it, was another thing.

I'd try to tell him about my day, a difficult client at the architecture firm, a small design breakthrough.

He'd nod, grunt, his eyes on his phone or the TV. "That's nice, honey."

But I'd seen him on the phone with Chloe.

Pacing, engaged, listening intently as she talked about her music, her anxieties, her cat.

He'd offer advice, comfort, his voice softer, more patient than I ever heard it with me.

These memories, once just pinpricks of annoyance, now formed a clear, painful pattern.

I wasn't a priority. I was an option.

Maybe not even that.