No More Pleading for You

On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine.

I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair.

"I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies.

I choose to believe him.

But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary.

Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place.

Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans.

That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him.

I look down at the cold food on the table.

Eric's words keep ringing in my head.

"I hate kissing."

"Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses."

Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately.

Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes.

The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands.

I nod quietly, saying nothing.

Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms.

"Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!"

In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore.

It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade.

Now, all I want is to find myself again.

I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design.

From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.

"Are you honestly ready to leave your husband and daughter behind?" the HR manager from the design academy teased.

I stared at my phone screen, my thoughts a storm of confusion.

Suddenly, Layla Sinclair's voice pierced the silence. "I want to call Shirley 'Mama,'" she said.

She looked up at me, not a flicker of doubt in her eyes.

"She feels more like a mom than you do. She even buys me ice cream."

I tried to speak, but no words came out.

Layla wanted to call Shirley "Mama", as if to wipe away my place in her life completely.

A sharp, burning pain suddenly seized my heart.

A decade of careful nurturing seemed to mean less than a single pint of ice cream.

Because of Layla's sensitive stomach, I'd always kept her away from cold treats. But somehow, she had forgotten.

That night, I was the one carrying her to the emergency room as anxiety gripped me with every step.

Meanwhile, Eric Sinclair and Shirley Huxley—the very ones to blame—were out partying at a nightclub.

Once Layla got better, the only things she remembered were the sweetness of the ice cream and Shirley's kindness. She forgot the sight of my tear-filled, bloodshot eyes in that cold hospital room.

The stabbing ache in my chest wiped away any will I had to defend myself.

With her hand over Layla's mouth, Shirley shot a cautious look my way.

Eric's eyes met hers, guilt etched deeply into his face.

"It's my fault. I owe you a child. From now on, you are Layla's mom," he said.

Ten years ago, Greta McCormick, my mother-in-law, covered the expenses for Shirley to study abroad.

It was only then that I was able to have the man I'd secretly longed for all those years.

But to Eric, I was always just an intruder. Everything I had now—Layla included—should've rightfully belonged to Shirley.

Shirley leaned on Eric with a playful smile.

"Darling, get me some fresh mango juice."

Eric frowned but remained silent, and in that moment, my heart skipped a beat.

He knew about my mango allergy and how it could send me into shock.

Yet, to my surprise, he ordered, "Go get it. And hurry."

His voice was calm, almost indifferent, as if commenting on the weather.

"You made it through the last allergy attack, didn't you? Shirley hardly ever wants mango juice anyway," he said dismissively.

I looked down at my trembling fingers, feeling the restless itch crawling beneath my skin.

Angry, I turned and walked away, only to hear Eric's sharp voice behind me. "Anna, you're being very rude. Shirley is my partner and a guest here."

With tears threatening to fall, I turned to confront him.

"You're wrong. She won't be just a guest for long. She's going to be the lady of this house. She's your life partner, after all!"

Eric refused to meet my tear-streaked eyes as he spoke sharply. "If you hadn't tried so hard to please my mother back then, Shirley and I wouldn't have broken up, and she wouldn't have lost the baby to depression.

"For years, you've been living on the love that should have been Shirley's. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I never tried to please Greta, nor did I set a trap for Shirley.

I'd said it a thousand times before. But now, the truth was something I couldn't bear to speak aloud.

Shirley suddenly acted upset and tried to walk away.

Layla held onto her tightly with tears rolling down her face.

"Mama Shirley, please don't leave. She's the one who should go."

It was clear Layla had grown tired of me a long time ago.

Not only did my husband resent me, but now my daughter was fed up too.

There was nothing left in this home that was worth holding onto.

I called out to Shirley, "There's something I need to give back to you."

It was the gallery I had dedicated ten years of my life to.

Every painting and every wall stood as a silent witness to my devotion.

Through countless sleepless nights, I labored alone, meticulously curating every piece.

Yet despite everything, Eric merely shrugged and said, "Return it to Shirley. It was hers from the start."

In that instant, his words crumbled a decade of my devotion into dust.

The top floor of the gallery was adorned with photos I had taken—capturing everything from Layla's first steps to Eric's rare, fleeting smiles.

Out of thousands of photos, none showed the three of us together as a family.

Yet there, in the most prominent spot, hung a portrait of him with Shirley and Layla—their perfect family of three.

Eric loomed behind me, his voice cutting through the silence. "Straighten it up. The lighting's better here."

I rose onto my tiptoes, my fingers trembling as I adjusted the frame.

This wasn't the first time Eric had pushed to return the gallery to Shirley. He was the one who'd drafted the transfer agreement.

As Shirley signed the papers, Eric's smile finally appeared.

"Anna, you're quite obedient today… and incredibly beautiful," he said.

It was the first time he'd ever called me beautiful.

But instead of happiness, I felt empty.

A decade had slipped through my fingers after I became Mrs. Sinclair.

Now, all I longed for was to find myself again.