Overlooked Wife, Officially Done

After that night, he went all in. Full-on pursuit.

I thought it was love.

Thought I was the one.

But the second Millie came back, everything flipped.

He stopped coming home. Squeezed every spare second to be with her.

Eight years wiped away her betrayal—but not his feelings for her.

Turns out, I was just the stand-in.

A clown stealing a little joy while the real star was offstage.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and texted Dylan:

[Let me know when you're back. I'll bring the papers—you sign, we go to the courthouse, and it's done.]

He replied faster than he ever had before:

[Millie's sick. She really needs me. Don't make a scene. Just stay home and wait for me.]

Yeah, no. Like I had time to sit around waiting on him.

The nurse told me I needed rest, so I signed myself in for a hospital stay.

Honestly, after two straight months here taking care of Dad, the nurses felt more like family than Dylan ever did.

And Dylan—he was the one who chased me. Married me.

He knew my dad was all I had.

He knew I was a foundling, a kid my dad had taken in and raised like his own. No mom. No siblings. No backup plan.

Dylan promised he'd be my family. Said he'd be there forever.

Eight years later? Still alone.

And the worst part? After all those empty promises... we didn't even have a child.

***

I stayed in the hospital for a week.

Once the doctor cleared me, I went home.

Dylan hadn't called. Not once.

I didn't even bother checking social to see what tropical love nest he and Millie had flown off to.

When I opened the door, there he was—standing in the living room, phone to his ear, frowning like I was the problem.

"I told you to wait at home. Where did you go?"

He pocketed his phone. Probably just realized I wasn't home and was about to call—not because he cared, but to scold me.

"I fell down the stairs. Just got discharged," I said.

He looked like he wanted to say something—then didn't.

Dropped it and flopped onto the couch, rubbing his forehead.

"I'm hungry. Cook me something."

I walked right past him and headed upstairs.

He kicked the suitcase and snapped, "Judy Jolliffe! Is this how a wife acts?"

Hand on the banister, I turned just enough.

"A wife? Isn't that Millie now? What's that got to do with me?"

Then I kept going, didn't look back.

Downstairs, I heard him kicking the coffee table.

I just locked the bedroom door.

He hadn't set foot in here in forever anyway.

I woke to morning light after a short rest.

Back then, I would've jumped up to prep everything for Dylan's day.

Didn't matter, though—he always had something to nitpick.

Wrong shirt.

Breakfast too basic.

Called me petty, said I wasn't "presentable."

So eventually, I stopped trying.

But when I came downstairs, I actually froze for a second.

Dylan was cleaning up the broken glass from the coffee table.

Now that was a first.

He looked up when he heard me coming, then looked away like that made everything disappear.

"I know your father's passing hit you hard. But I came back yesterday just for you—and you're still jealous of Millie?"

Yesterday?

"Being five days late counts as coming back for me?"

He slammed the broom down.

"You don't even remember what day it is? You forgot our wedding anniversary?"

He pointed at some gift box on the couch.

"With that attitude, you really think you're any match for Millie—"

He froze.

I smiled.

"Our anniversary was the day BEFORE yesterday."

He looked like he wanted to disappear. Switched gears fast.

"You said you fell down the stairs. What happened?"

"Nothing," I said. "Spent the day handling Dad's stuff. Stood on the beach all night without eating. Passed out from low blood sugar."