My husband told me he married me because he couldn’t marry my sister.

He said it at his company Christmas party, drunk on whiskey and eight years of pretending.

We were standing by the bar in a downtown hotel ballroom, under glittering chandeliers and fake snowflake decorations, when his colleague Brett clapped him on the shoulder.

“Man, you’re lucky,” Brett said, grinning at me. “Your wife is gorgeous.”

Dylan swayed a little, his tie already loose, his cheeks flushed that particular drunk pink.

“Yeah, well,” he slurred, raising his glass, “you should see her sister.”

Brett laughed, the automatic kind people use when they’re not sure what else to do.

Dylan kept going.

“Now that’s the real prize,” he said. Then he jerked his thumb in my direction. “This one’s just the consolation.”

Brett’s laugh died halfway out of his mouth.

I froze with my cocktail halfway to my lips. The music and chatter around us faded to a muffled hum.

“What did you just say?” I asked.

Dylan turned toward me like he’d forgotten I was standing right there.

“Nothing, baby,” he said. “Just guy talk.”

Brett was already backing away, mumbling something about needing to find his wife.

“You said I’m a consolation prize,” I said.

“You’re being sensitive,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

“You said you wished you’d married Luna.”

He shrugged.

“Can’t marry your wife’s sister,” he said, like he was explaining tax law. “That’s not how it works. So I married you instead.”

He took a swallow of whiskey. “Someone had to marry you first.”

He said it like he was describing a business strategy that had worked out okay.

Eight years. Eight years of marriage, two kids, a mortgage—

And he was telling me I’d been the pathway to my younger sister the whole time.

“We need to leave,” I said.

“Party’s just getting started,” he said, looking around for another drink.

“We’re leaving now.”

Something in my voice must’ve cut through the alcohol because he shut his mouth and followed me toward the coat check without arguing.

We drove home in a silence so thick it felt like fog. The Christmas lights blinking on the houses we passed looked like they belonged to another world.

Halfway down the freeway, he tried to backtrack.

“I didn’t mean it how it sounded,” he said.

“How did you mean it?” I kept my eyes on the road.

He sighed like I was exhausting.

“Luna’s gorgeous,” he said. “Everyone knows it. You know it. But I chose you because I couldn’t choose her.”

“That’s not—” I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “What does that even mean?”

“Look,” he said, slumping against the seat. “When I met you both that summer at your parents’ place, Luna was eighteen. You were twenty‑three. It made more sense.”

“What made more sense?”

“Dating you.” He said it like we were still at that barbecue. “She was too young. Your parents would’ve freaked out. But you were perfect. Same family, same genetics, just more appropriate.”

Same genetics.

Like I was a placeholder with the right DNA.

“Did you ever love me?” I asked.

“Of course I love you,” he said. “You’re my wife.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He stared out the windshield at the red glow of brake lights ahead of us.

“What do you want me to say?” he snapped. “That I never noticed how beautiful your sister is? That I never wondered ‘what if’? Everyone wonders.”

“Not about their wife’s sister,” I said. “Not for eight years.”

He didn’t answer.

We pulled into our driveway without another word. The Christmas wreath I’d hung last week looked stupid now, all fake cheer and twinkling lights.

I walked straight past the living room and into our bedroom. Pulled the big suitcase from the closet. Unzipped it so hard the zipper caught.

Dylan appeared in the doorway, jacket off, shirt untucked.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What does it look like?” I said, yanking dresses from hangers.

“You’re overreacting,” he said. “So I find your sister attractive. So what? I married you. I had kids with you.”

He reached for my arm.

“Stop being dramatic. You can’t leave over this.”

“Watch me,” I said.

“And go where?” he scoffed. “Your parents? They’ll ask why. What will you tell them? That I think Luna’s pretty? They’ll say you’re being childish.”

“I’ll tell them the truth,” I said. “That you admitted you married me as a consolation prize.”

“I was drunk,” he said.

“Drunk words are sober thoughts,” I snapped.

My phone started buzzing on the dresser. Luna’s name lit up the screen.

I hit answer and put it on speaker.

“Hey,” she said. “Are you okay? Brett’s wife just called me. She said something weird happened at Dylan’s party.”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

“She said Dylan was talking about me,” Luna continued. “Something about wishing… I don’t know. She wouldn’t say exactly.”

Dylan’s face went pale.

“Luna, what exactly did she tell you?” I asked.

“Just that Dylan said something inappropriate about marrying the wrong sister,” Luna said. Her voice sharpened. “Is that true?”

I looked at him.

“Why don’t you ask him?” I said.

“Dylan?” Luna said. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “It was taken out of context.”

“What context makes that okay?” Luna snapped. “You’re married to my sister. You have two kids. What is wrong with you?”

Dylan exploded.

“Everyone always fawns over you,” he said. “At every family event, every dinner. Luna the model. Luna the influencer. Luna the perfect one. And I’m stuck with—” He stopped.

“Stuck with what?” I said quietly. “Finish the sentence.”

He swallowed.

“With someone who’ll never measure up,” he muttered.

Luna gasped so loud it crackled through the speaker.

“You piece of shit,” she said. “My sister is worth ten of you. She’s brilliant and kind and funny. She’s the one who helped you get your job. She’s the one who supported you through your dad’s death. She’s raising your children practically alone, and you’re stuck?”

“Luna—” Dylan started.

“No,” she snapped. “Don’t you ever speak to me again. Don’t look at me. Don’t come to family events. You’re disgusting.”

She paused.

“Lily, do you need somewhere to stay?” she asked.

My throat tightened.

“I’m packing now,” I said.

“Come here,” she said immediately. “The kids can have the spare room.”

“Luna, this isn’t your problem,” Dylan said.

“It became my problem when you made me part of your sick fantasy,” Luna shot back. “What else do you do? Stare at my photos? Compare us? Pretend she’s me?”

“Stop,” Dylan said.

“No,” Luna said. “I want to know. How long have you been pretending my sister is me? Since the wedding? Since the honeymoon? Every time you—”

“Stop!” Dylan shouted.

“I’m leaving my phone on for you,” Luna said to me. “The door will be unlocked.” Her voice dropped to ice. “And Dylan? I’m telling everyone. Mom, Dad, cousins, everyone. They should know what kind of man you are.”

She hung up.

Dylan stared at me like I’d stabbed him instead of the other way around.

“This is your fault,” he said.

“My fault?” I laughed, a short, ugly sound.

“You had to make a big deal about it,” he said. “Now she hates me. Your whole family will hate me. You did this.”

“You admitted you married me to get close to my sister,” I said.

“I never said that exactly,” he argued.

“You said I was a consolation prize,” I said. “You said you’re stuck with me. You said I’ll never measure up.”

“Because it’s true,” he exploded. “You’re ordinary. You’re boring. You’re not special. Luna lights up every room. You just… exist in them.”

I stopped packing.

Really looked at him for the first time in years. The thinning hair, the soft middle hanging over his belt, the angry little eyes.

“Do you want to know the truth?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“I’ve known for three years that you settled for me,” I said. “I felt it every time you suggested I try Luna’s workout routine. Every time you asked why I couldn’t dress more like her. Every family dinner when your eyes followed her around the room while you barely looked at me.”

His face drained of color.

“I normalized it,” I said. “Because I thought that’s what marriage was. Making peace with being second choice. But hearing you say it out loud to your coworker, admitting you’re stuck with me… that broke something I can’t fix.”

He opened his mouth and nothing came out.

I turned back to the suitcase.

“Guest room,” I said without looking at him. “Sleep there tonight. I need to finish this.”

For once, he didn’t argue. I heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway, the squeak of the guest room door closing.

The silence that followed felt heavy, but also strangely clean. Like I could finally breathe without his presence pressing on my chest.

Nine minutes later, my phone rang again.

“Mom and Dad are driving up tomorrow morning,” Luna said as soon as I answered. Her voice was tight with anger. “I already called them. I told them everything Brett’s wife told me, and they’re coming first thing. You won’t have to explain alone.”

Relief hit me so hard I had to sit down on the edge of the bed.

“Thank you,” I managed.

“I love you,” she said. “We’ve got you.”

She hung up to keep calling family members.

I spent the rest of the night moving through our bedroom like a ghost. Every framed photo on the dresser showed a life I thought was real but now felt staged. Our wedding picture where Dylan’s smile looked genuine. The hospital photos with our newborns where he seemed proud. Beach vacations, birthday cakes, Christmas mornings.

I left them all where they were. They belonged to a version of me who didn’t know the truth yet.

I packed practical things: kids’ clothes, favorite toys, school supplies. My laptop. The file folder with birth certificates and insurance documents.

I left behind eight years of building a life with someone who had apparently been wishing I was my sister the entire time.

The kids woke up around seven asking about breakfast.

I made pancakes on autopilot, flipping them while my mind spun.

“We’re going to stay at Aunt Luna’s for a few days,” I said as casually as I could.

“Like a sleepover?” my daughter asked, eyes lighting up.

“Exactly like that,” I said.

“Why?” my son asked.

I used the careful language you pick up from other divorced parents.

“Mommy and Daddy need some space to figure things out,” I said.

“Are you fighting?” he asked.

“Sometimes grown‑ups need time apart to think,” I said. “But we both love you very much. That doesn’t change.”

They accepted it the way kids do, brains already moving on.

Dylan shuffled out of the guest room looking like he’d been hit by a truck. His hair stuck up in odd directions. His eyes were red.

He tried to kiss the kids goodbye like it was any other morning, but our son stepped back.

“Why does Daddy look sad?” he asked me.

I swallowed hard.

“Daddy’s just tired,” I said. “Say goodbye so we can get going.”

My daughter hugged him. My son gave this stiff little wave from across the kitchen.

Dylan’s face crumpled.

I couldn’t feel sorry for him. He’d lit this match himself.

Luna’s apartment felt like stepping into a bunker.

She had the spare room set up with two air mattresses already made, the kids’ favorite snacks lined up on the dresser, their names written on sticky notes above each bed.

She hugged me the second we walked in and I finally started crying. Eight years of pretending everything was fine crashed over me all at once.

The kids ran off to explore the room while I sobbed into my sister’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she kept saying. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

My parents showed up at noon like Luna promised. Dad’s face was dark with anger. Mom was already crying.

We sat on Luna’s couch while I repeated Dylan’s words out loud. Consolation prize. Stuck with you. Never measure up.

Mom cried harder with every sentence. Dad’s jaw clenched tighter and tighter.

When I finished, he pulled out his phone.

“I’m calling him right now,” Dad said.

His voice was cold, controlled. Way scarier than if he’d been shouting.

He put the call on speaker.

Dylan picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, sir,” he said cautiously.

“You’re not welcome at family events anymore,” my father said, skipping hello entirely. “Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays—nothing. You communicate through lawyers from now on. You don’t call my daughter unless it’s about the kids. You don’t show up at our house. You made your choice at that party. Now you live with the consequences.”

“Sir, please, I—” Dylan started.

Dad hung up.

Mom squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. Luna sat beside me, radiating fury.

My phone started buzzing before Dad’s was even back in his pocket.

Dylan’s name flashed across the screen over and over.

I let it go to voicemail. Three times. Then the texts started.

Your dad threatened me. This is insane. You need to call him off.

I’m still your husband. We can work this out if you stop making everything so dramatic.

You’re turning everyone against me. Your family always loved you more anyway.

Each message twisted the knife and then tried to hand it to me.

I took screenshots of every single one and sent them to Luna.

She read them, her face hardening.

“He’s digging his own grave,” she said.

That evening, the doorbell rang. Luna went to answer it.

Marissa stood there holding two bottles of wine and a bag of Chinese takeout.

“I heard,” she said as soon as she saw me. “Through Sarah, who heard from her husband, who works with Dylan. I brought noodles and alcohol.”

She hugged me so hard I almost dropped the wine.

Around Luna’s dining table, we ate lo mein from cardboard containers while Marissa relayed what was happening at Dylan’s office.

“Brett’s wife told everyone at yoga,” she said. “Half the neighborhood knows he called you a consolation prize at his own work party. Brett says HR already pulled him in for a ‘talk.’”

“Good,” Luna muttered.

Dylan’s parents called while I was tucking the kids into their makeshift beds.

Luna saw his mom’s name on my screen and grabbed the phone before I could.

“She’s not ready to talk to you yet,” Luna said, walking into the hallway.

Even from the bedroom, I could hear Dylan’s mother crying on speaker.

“We raised him better than this,” she sobbed. “We don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“Your son publicly humiliated his wife at a company party,” Luna said. “That’s what’s gotten into him.”

They wanted to come over. Luna told them absolutely not. She promised I would call when I was ready. Then she hung up and handed my phone back.

“You don’t have to manage their feelings too,” she said. “Not right now.”

That night, Marissa’s husband Henry called.

“I just wanted to offer some legal perspective,” he said. “Marissa told me the basics. What he said at that party could matter in court.”

He explained, in the calm voice of someone who’d been through this with clients before, that Dylan’s public confession about marrying me as a consolation prize, plus the pattern of comparisons to my sister, could be documented as emotional abuse.

“You need a good family law attorney,” he said. “I’ll email you some names.”

Two days later, I sat in a sleek downtown office across from a woman named Jamaica, a family lawyer with sharp gray hair and eyes that didn’t miss anything.

“Tell me everything,” she said.

So I did.

The party. The car. The phone call with Luna. My dad’s reaction. The texts. The way Dylan had compared me to my sister for years, how he’d suggested I try Luna’s workout routine, dress more like Luna, cut my hair like Luna.

When I finished, Jamaica leaned back in her chair.

“His words and behavior form a clear pattern of emotional abuse through comparison,” she said. “This isn’t just hurt feelings. This is documented.”

“I thought I was being sensitive,” I said. “Jealous.”

“Abusers count on that,” she said. “On you doubting your own perception.”

She asked if there were other examples. Once I started talking, I couldn’t stop.

The time he showed me Luna’s Instagram and said, “Why don’t you put this much effort into your appearance?” The Christmas he spent the entire day at my parents’ house trailing Luna with his eyes while I passed appetizers and pretended not to notice. His suggestion that we plan our vacation where Luna “just happened” to be traveling so we could meet up.

By the time I finished, Jamaica’s pen had filled two full pages.

“We’ll file for divorce,” she said. “Document everything. Protect your custody and your share of the assets. He’s not going to like it, but he made this bed.”

Three days after I officially moved in with Luna, Dylan showed up at her apartment.

I was making grilled cheese for the kids when the doorbell rang. Luna went to answer it.

“I need to see my kids,” I heard Dylan say.

“You need to arrange visits through proper channels now,” Luna replied. “You don’t just show up.”

I stepped into the hallway.

Dylan looked exhausted, unshaven, eyes bloodshot. For a second, the old part of me—the peacekeeper—almost felt sorry for him.

Then I remembered the journal we’d find later and that dissolved.

“Let me in,” he demanded. “This is between me and my wife.”

Luna laughed, sharp and humorless.

“Your wife is my sister,” she said. “And you’re not coming in here.”

“You’ve always wanted this,” he said, voice rising. “You’ve always been jealous that I chose her over you.”

Luna’s mouth dropped open, then curled into a disbelieving smile.

“You managed to poison her against you all by yourself at that Christmas party,” she said. “I didn’t have to do anything. You stood in front of your coworkers and called her a consolation prize. You told her she’d never measure up. That’s all you.”

He tried to step forward. Luna planted her feet.

The kids appeared behind me, peeking around my legs.

“Go back to the living room,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “Daddy’s just leaving.”

“I’m not leaving without seeing my kids,” Dylan snapped.

“Then you can call your lawyer and set up a proper visit,” Luna said. “But you’re not barging into this apartment and pretending nothing happened.”

He looked at me over her shoulder.

“Lily,” he said. “Tell her.”

“You need to go,” I said.

Five seconds. Ten. Then he turned and walked down the hallway.

That afternoon, while the kids napped, I drove back to the house to pick up more clothes and toys.

Walking into our old bedroom felt like walking onto a stage set after the play had closed. Everything looked the same—the bed we picked out, the pictures on the walls—but it was all props now.

I packed the kids’ winter coats, their favorite stuffed animals, extra shoes.

In our room, I started pulling clothes from my side of the closet and noticed Dylan’s nightstand drawer was slightly open.

I shouldn’t look, I thought.

I looked.

Inside was an old leather journal I vaguely remembered from his college days.

I flipped it open, intending to glance at one page and put it back.

The first entry I landed on was dated three months after we started dating.

Family barbecue at Lily’s parents’ place, it read. Luna wore this yellow sundress. Couldn’t stop watching her. She’s the one that got away. Lily is good enough for now until I figure out a better plan.

My vision blurred.

I turned pages. More entries about Luna, sprinkled between notes about his classes, his job, me.

Luna is captivating. Magnetic. Perfect.

Lily is practical. Safe. Acceptable.

There was an entry from the week he proposed.

Marrying Lily is the smart move. Keeps me connected to Luna. Her parents like me. Good foundation. Maybe someday…

My hands shook as I snapped photos of every page with my phone.

This wasn’t drunk talk. This wasn’t a moment of weakness. This was premeditated.

I shoved the journal back in the drawer like it had burned me and finished packing as fast as I could.

Sunday dinner at my parents’ house turned into a strategy summit.

Dad wanted to take Dylan “for everything.” Mom wanted to burn his belongings. Luna wanted me to move at my own pace.

“I just want out,” I said. “And a fair split and custody.”

“He doesn’t deserve fair,” Dad said.

“The kids do,” Luna said quietly.

They meant well. Their anger was on my side. But it was overwhelming.

Back at Luna’s that night, my phone kept ringing from unfamiliar numbers. When I didn’t pick up, the voicemails started.

The first one was contrite.

“I’m so sorry,” Dylan said. “I was drunk. I didn’t mean any of it. Please, just talk to me.”

The second one, from a different number, was angry.

“You’re turning everyone against me,” he snapped. “You’re making me look like a monster. This is your fault.”

The third flipped back to remorse.

“I’ll go to therapy,” he said. “We can fix this. Don’t throw away our marriage over something stupid.”

Jamaica told me to save everything. Document the pattern. So I did. Screenshot after screenshot. Voicemail after voicemail.

I got the kids into counseling through their school. The child therapist, a woman named Elena, sat cross‑legged on the rug with them while they colored. After the first session, she told me they were doing as well as could be expected.

“Your son keeps asking if Dad stopped loving Mom,” she said gently.

The question made my stomach drop.

“Your daughter’s having nightmares about the family breaking apart,” she added. “But they both feel safe with you. That’s the most important thing.”

Dylan’s mother reached out again, this time asking to meet me alone.

We sat in a corner booth at a coffee shop. She looked smaller than I remembered, her hands wrapped around a mug like it was holding her together.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, tears already spilling. “I wish I could say I was surprised.”

She told me she’d noticed things over the years—his eyes following Luna, the way he positioned himself next to her at family dinners. She’d mentioned it to his father once.

“He said I was overreacting,” she said. “Said all men look.”

She admitted that when Dylan told them he wanted to marry me, his father had called me “good wife material.” Stable. Sensible. From a good family.

“We thought you’d settle him,” she said. “We thought kids and responsibility would fix whatever was wrong.”

It hadn’t.

I left the coffee shop feeling wrung out. Betrayed by Dylan, betrayed by their silence. But at least now I knew I hadn’t imagined any of it.

Kalista, my new therapist, sat across from me in her soft‑lit office and listened while I unloaded everything.

“You’re not just grieving the end of your marriage,” she said. “You’re grieving the loss of the story you told yourself about those eight years.”

She called it betrayal trauma. She said my body had been living in fight‑or‑flight for years without me realizing it. She gave me breathing exercises and told me to start a journal of my own.

“Write down twenty things you like about yourself that have nothing to do with your appearance or how you compare to anyone,” she said.

That night, sitting at Luna’s kitchen table, I stared at a blank page for a long time.

Eventually, I wrote: I’m good at solving problems. I make my kids feel safe. I’m creative. I’m organized. I’m funny when I’m not walking on eggshells.

I had to fight the urge to write, I’m not my sister, like that was the only thing that mattered.

A few weeks later, we sat in a mediator’s office with a woman named Lena to hammer out custody.

The chairs were too close together. Dylan stared at his hands. I kept my eyes on Lena’s notepad.

“We’re here to focus on the children,” she said. “Not to re‑litigate your marriage.”

She asked about our work schedules, the kids’ routines, school pick‑ups.

When we got to holidays, Dylan cleared his throat.

“They should spend Christmas with me at my parents’ like normal,” he said.

“Nothing about this is normal anymore,” I said. “We’ll alternate.”

Lena nodded, already scribbling. “Alternating holidays is standard,” she said.

Dylan’s face crumpled. Tears filled his eyes. His shoulders shook.

Six months ago, I would’ve reached for his hand.

Lena let him cry for a few seconds.

“I know this is hard,” she said. “But love requires respect. Calling your wife a consolation prize at a work party showed a lack of basic respect. Do you see that?”

He nodded, wiping his face.

I felt nothing but tired.

Jamaica called a week later with news.

“Dylan’s proposed settlement is… surprisingly reasonable,” she said. “Fifty‑fifty custody, alternating holidays, equal split of assets, kids’ college funds protected.”

“Should we fight for more?” I asked.

“We could,” she said. “But dragging this out will cost you time, money, and emotional energy. This is fair. You don’t need to punish him in court. You just need to get free.”

I sat with that for a night.

Then I told her to accept.

When the day came to sign the agreement, I sat in her office turning pages while my hand shook.

Signature after signature after signature, closing the book on a marriage I’d built on quicksand.

In the weeks that followed, I apartment‑hunted.

Luna offered to let us stay as long as we wanted. My parents offered to help with a down payment if I wanted to buy something.

I found a two‑bedroom rental in a neighborhood with tree‑lined streets and a park two blocks away. Small living room, tiny kitchen, but sunlight poured through the windows in the afternoon.

I could see us there.

On moving day, Luna borrowed an SUV and we loaded it with boxes. The kids buzzed with excitement.

“Do we each get our own room?” my daughter asked.

“Yep,” I said.

“Can mine be blue like the ocean?” my son asked.

“We’ll see what the landlord says,” I laughed.

By the end of the day, the apartment was a chaos of boxes and half‑built IKEA furniture.

We ordered pizza and ate it on the floor. The kids fell asleep on their new mattresses still talking about where their stuffed animals would go.

Saturday morning, Dylan came to pick them up for his first visitation at the new place.

He stood in the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Nice place,” he said, glancing past me.

“They’re ready,” I said. “Backpacks are by the door.”

He nodded. The kids hugged me goodbye.

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” my daughter said cheerfully.

“Have fun,” I said.

I watched them walk down the hall with him and felt my heart twist—but not break.

I went back inside my apartment. My apartment. With my paint colors and my dishes and my art on the walls.

Luna showed up that afternoon with paint samples.

“Pick something Dylan would’ve hated,” she said.

We painted my bedroom a deep sage green while the windows were open and music played from her phone. She told me about a work event she had coming up where she was being honored and asked me to come as her guest.

“I’m not exactly in a gala mood,” I said.

“Exactly why you should go,” she said.

So I did.

The event was in another hotel ballroom, but this time I wasn’t someone’s consolation prize wife. I was just… me.

Luna glittered in a silver dress, accepting an award for a marketing campaign that had gone viral. She introduced me to people as “my sister, Lily, she’s an amazing designer,” and they asked me questions about my work and actually listened while I answered.

No one compared me to her. No one asked if I ever wished I looked more like Luna.

I drove home that night feeling something unfamiliar: proud of myself.

Three weeks later, an email from the court popped up on my phone.

Final decree of divorce.

Just like that, eight years of marriage became a PDF.

Jamaica called to congratulate me. Kalista talked me through the strange grief of it—the way relief and sadness could live in the same body.

My parents hosted what Mom insisted on calling a “new beginning dinner” even though I told her it felt weird to celebrate a divorce.

“We’re not celebrating the divorce,” she said. “We’re celebrating you choosing yourself.”

Luna brought wine. Marissa brought dessert. My dad grilled steaks like it was a holiday.

Halfway through dinner, Dad stood up and cleared his throat.

“I’d like to make a toast,” he said.

Everyone quieted.

“To Lily,” he said, voice thick. “For being brave enough to walk away from a man who didn’t deserve her. For showing her kids what self‑respect looks like. For reminding all of us that being second choice is never good enough.”

Glasses clinked. Mom wiped happy tears. Luna squeezed my hand under the table.

Later that night, back in our apartment, after baths and bedtime stories, my son looked up at me from his bed.

“Mom?” he said.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Are you happy now?” he asked, voice small but serious.

I sat on the edge of his bed, tucking his dinosaur blanket around his legs.

I thought about the last six months. About the Christmas party. The journal. The moving boxes. The paint on my hands. The way my chest didn’t feel so tight all the time anymore.

“Yeah,” I said. “I am.”

“Even without Daddy here?” he asked.

“Even without Daddy here,” I said softly. “Because I learned something important.”

“What?”

“That I’m worth more than being someone’s second choice,” I said. “And that you and your sister deserve to see what that looks like.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he sat up and threw his arms around my neck.

“You’re my first choice,” he whispered.

I held him, breathing in the smell of his shampoo, and felt something settle in my chest.

For the first time since that awful night by the bar, my world didn’t feel like it was tilting.

It felt like it was finally, slowly, tilting back into place.