I expected flowers, maybe dinner. Instead, my husband gave me an AI portrait of myself with six-pack abs and a model’s waist. He called it motivation. I should’ve asked who was really motivating him.
On my birthday, my husband handed me a portrait of a woman I had never been. He called it motivation.
But the dread started weeks before that, six months after our twins were born, at 2:47 a.m. in the nursery.
Lily finally stopped fussing against my shoulder, and Noah, in the crib beside me, made that small hiccupy sigh that meant he was drifting again.
The living room behind me looked like a small war zone:
Upstairs, my husband Finn was asleep.
He had “helped when asked” earlier, which tonight meant handing me the wipes once and then yawning his way to bed.
My phone buzzed on the changing table. My best friend Maya, of course.
She was the only person who texted me at this hour and expected an answer.
Maya: Still up?
Me: Round three. Lily won 🫠
Maya: How’s quiet Finn😁?
Me: “He did the thing again. Told me I looked so good in that green dress.”
Maya: Els. That is not normal Finn.
I knew it wasn’t.
Finn had blushed asking to hold my hand on our third date.
His one indulgence was the car he’d saved for since college.
My husband had always been quiet, but lately he’d started making little comments about my clothes and body that didn’t sound like him.
Friday nights meant beer and wings with Ryan, Cole, and Mason, three guys who called each other “whipped” like it was both an insult and a badge.
Lately, though, those Friday nights had been running later.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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