Chapter 5: The Anniversary Illusion

I used to think Natalie was just indifferent, maybe not good at expressing love. Otherwise, why would she marry me so quickly? Wasn’t it love at first sight?

I tried to make excuses for her—maybe she was just shy, maybe she needed time to open up. I convinced myself it would get better, that all couples struggled at first.

But after seeing all this, I understood everything.

The truth was glaring now—undeniable. My marriage was just a consolation prize, a footnote in her real story.

It turned out that in Natalie’s heart, there was an unforgettable first love. For some reason, they couldn’t be together, so she settled for me.

The pieces fit together: the rush to the altar, the emotional distance, the way she flinched if I tried to get close. It was all because I wasn’t him.

I once blamed Natalie for never saying sweet words.

I’d fish for compliments, ask if she loved me, but she always dodged the question, hiding behind practicality.

Natalie only said indifferently:

"I’m not good with words. Don’t ask for so much."

Her voice was flat, almost cold. I told myself she just wasn’t the romantic type, but now I knew better.

It was like something exploded in my head.

The betrayal wasn’t violent—it was quiet, seeping in through the cracks. I felt unmoored, the floor falling out from under me.

It’s not that she’s not good with words—she just didn’t want to express love to me.

I realized all at once: it wasn’t her inability. She just saved her warmth for someone else.

I could hardly breathe, holding onto the table just to stay standing.

The room spun, vision blurring. My hands clutched the edge of the desk, knuckles white. I felt like I might throw up.

Five years of marriage turned out to be nothing but a transaction.

The truth stung—ours was a marriage of convenience, a contract signed by two people running from their own regrets.

I was Natalie’s second-best choice.

Always a runner-up, never the winner. The realization left me gutted.

Yes, if that person wasn’t her first love, then it didn’t matter who she married.

Anyone could’ve filled my spot. It was never about me.

Natalie was actually glad Lily didn’t look like me. She was afraid that in the future, she’d see my shadow in her life.

All those times I’d joked about my daughter inheriting my awkward features—I’d never guessed it was a relief to her, not a disappointment.

So many times I was glad my daughter didn’t look like me. I’m not handsome—heavy brow, thin lips—and I even joked:

"If Lily looks like me, she’ll need a nose job in the future."

I’d say it at family dinners, trying to lighten the mood. Everyone would laugh. Natalie would just lower her gaze, hiding a secret smile I now realized wasn’t for me.

At the time, Natalie lowered her eyes and said nothing. She was probably happy inside.

I never noticed the glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes, the way she’d touch Lily’s hair protectively.

I put the phone back and tried to leave, but my legs were so weak I couldn’t move.

I slumped into the desk chair, body heavy with grief. My breath shuddered out of me, ragged and shallow.

After a long time, I realized, at some point, two lines of tears had slid down my cheeks.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, feeling strangely detached from my own sadness. I hadn’t cried in years—not since my dad’s funeral. But this felt just as final.

This is the woman I loved for five years.

My mind replayed all the anniversaries, the inside jokes that never landed, the attempts at connection that were met with silence.

I’m not even worthy of a name, at least not in Natalie’s Instagram or messages.

I was invisible, a ghost haunting the edges of her life story.

The company driver kept calling to hurry me. I pulled myself together and ran downstairs.

Wiping my face, I grabbed my suitcase and jogged out to the curb. Kyle was waiting in the company car, engine idling, sunglasses perched on his head even though it was overcast.

"Mr. Grant, tomorrow is your wedding anniversary with your wife, right?"

Kyle’s words snapped me out of my trance. He was always friendly, quick with a joke, but today his voice seemed far away.

Driver Kyle’s words pulled me out of my thoughts. I was surprised:

"How do you know?"

I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked.

Kyle grinned:

"Of course. Every year on this day, you ask me to order a big bouquet of roses and an expensive cake. You also take time off to go home, and buy lots of gifts for your wife. You have no idea how many women in the company envy your wife for having such a good husband."

He winked in the rearview mirror, like he was in on some private joke. I forced a laugh, but it felt brittle, fake.

I clenched my clothes tightly, my heart aching as if torn apart.

My hand twisted in my shirt, knuckles white. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to keep it together.

"But you’re on a business trip today, so you won’t make it back tomorrow. Do you still want me to order flowers?"

Kyle changed the topic and asked.

He glanced at me in the mirror, waiting for the usual answer. I stared out the window, searching for words that wouldn’t come.

My eyes dimmed. I replied indifferently:

"No need."

My voice was flat, almost a whisper. The words tasted bitter.

Kyle chuckled:

"Are you taking your wife abroad for a trip?"

He grinned, elbow propped on the window, oblivious to the turmoil inside me. The thought twisted in my gut.

I wanted to deny it, but couldn’t find my voice, so I just nodded.

I forced my head up and down, swallowing the lie. Kyle seemed satisfied.

Yes, every anniversary, I gave Natalie many gifts. I thought rituals were the most important part of marriage.

I believed in grand gestures—flowers, chocolates, dinners at fancy restaurants. I thought if I tried hard enough, I could build love from the outside in.

The first anniversary, Natalie came home late at night. The cake had collapsed, and half the candles had burned out.

I’d waited up, the lights dimmed, music playing softly. The cake sagged under its own weight, wax puddling on the kitchen counter.

Natalie didn’t even spare me a glance, only said indifferently:

"Worked late, came back late. I already ate out. Sorry."

She breezed past, dropping her keys in the bowl, barely looking at the scene I’d spent hours preparing. My heart sank, but I pasted on a smile.

Though I was disappointed, I still smiled and handed her the gift. She took it expressionlessly:

"Thanks."

She peeled back the wrapping, eyes scanning the label. Her voice was neutral—no excitement, no gratitude. I told myself it was just her way.

But the next day, I saw all the gifts I had carefully picked for her listed on Facebook Marketplace. The first time I gave her something, I even asked several female coworkers for advice to make sure she’d like it.

I scrolled through the listings, recognizing the purse, the necklace, the skincare set. Each post was another nail in the coffin of my hope. My coworkers had tried to help, but it didn’t matter.

Lipstick, skincare, purses—I bought them all.

Every year, I tried to get it right, tried to make her smile. The pile of returns and resales grew taller than my optimism.