Chapter 5: The Diamond Necklace

After that, my days blurred together.

Sunlight crept across the carpet, marking the hours. Some mornings, I’d check the calendar just to remember what day it was. It was all baby bottles, laundry, and the low drone of daytime TV.

Most of the time, I stayed upstairs with the baby, avoiding my mother-in-law’s passive-aggressive comments and my sister-in-law’s snide remarks.

The upstairs hallway became my safe zone. Maddie and I played with building blocks and colored on printer paper, the sounds of gossip and bickering drifting up from the kitchen. I became a ghost in my own house, only venturing downstairs for coffee or diaper runs.

Taking care of Maddie ate up all my time and energy—monotonous, repetitive, but safe.

The routine was numbing, but there was comfort in the predictability. I knew every inch of her schedule—when she’d fuss, when she’d laugh. I lost track of my own reflection, stopped caring about the outside world.

It let me avoid thinking, changing, or facing anything.

I shut out the questions I didn’t want to answer—about Derek, about Rachel, about who I was beyond a mother. Survival mode, I told myself. One day at a time.

The one thing that made me happy was watching my daughter grow.

Her giggles were bright spots in the haze. The way she clapped for herself after stacking blocks, the way she squealed when I blew raspberries on her belly. Those moments felt like sunlight after a long winter.

In two months, she’d be two.

I marked the date on the fridge calendar in red marker, drawing a smiley face beside it. My baby, almost a toddler. Time slipped through my fingers faster than I could hold on.

That night, before bed, Derek mentioned something offhand.

He leaned against the doorframe, cell phone in hand, looking tired. The streetlight outside cast stripes across his face. I was folding laundry, matching tiny socks, when he spoke up.

"The art museum’s hosting Rachel’s photography exhibit, so I’ll be busy for a while."

He said it so casually, like he was talking about the weather. The words landed heavy, though. I felt my hands go still over a stack of onesies.

It took me a second to process.

My brain felt slow, like it was buffering. The words circled in my head, refusing to settle. Rachel. Exhibit. Busy. Together.

I’d been like this since Maddie was born—slow to think, slow to react.

Mom brain, they called it. I used to be sharp—now, sometimes, I forgot the word for "microwave."

He said they were preparing, which meant they’d already been in touch, planned things out, met up—Derek was the museum director, so he and Rachel had probably met at least ten times.

I pictured them sitting in his office, leaning over blueprints, laughing about old times. My stomach clenched. I tried not to imagine her in the seat across from his desk, the same one I’d sat in, years ago, when he first told me he loved me.

I was quiet for a moment. Lately, a lot of things had been piling up inside, and I finally couldn’t help myself.

The questions had been circling for weeks. Tonight, I let them spill out, too tired to care about the consequences.

"Why does it have to be her exhibit? You know she has feelings for you. She’s been sending gifts to the house for years. Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, avoid—"

My voice cracked, but I pressed on. I wanted an answer—any answer that didn’t make me feel crazy for noticing the obvious.

"Enough!"

Derek cut me off, sharp.

His voice sliced through the air, sharp and cold. I flinched, the words freezing on my tongue.

"What are you even talking about? Rachel just won an international award—every museum wants her. It’s just work! Aubrey, when did you turn into one of those jealous wives on TV?"

He stared at me, disappointment etched deep in the set of his jaw. He used to joke about those reality shows, the screaming matches and thrown drinks. Now, his words stung like a slap.

His disappointment was obvious. When he said the last part, his eyes were cold.

There was a wall between us, built brick by brick over the last year. I wanted to climb over it, but I didn’t know where to start.

I froze.

My mouth went dry. I stood there, clutching a balled-up pair of socks, wishing I could disappear into the laundry basket.

I looked at myself in the mirror nearby.

The mirror above Maddie’s dresser caught my reflection. I looked older, heavier, tired in ways that sleep couldn’t fix.

Bloated, exhausted.

My skin was pale, my eyes ringed with shadows. I hardly recognized myself.

There was a yellow stain on my pajama pants from Maddie earlier, and I hadn’t had time to change.

The spot glared at me, a badge of motherhood I couldn’t wash away. I’d meant to change an hour ago, but the day had gotten away from me—again.

Shame hit me like a punch. My confidence crumbled, and I wanted to crawl under the covers and disappear.

The urge to hide was overwhelming. My eyes stung, and I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears win.

But I stood there, not thinking about what he’d said, and asked another question.

I steadied myself, forcing my voice to stay even. I wasn’t ready to drop it—not yet.

"You promised we’d move out when Maddie turned two. Does that still count?"

The words sounded small, almost childish. But I needed the hope of a change, even a small one.

Derek frowned, irritation all over his face.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing loudly. The kind of sigh that says, "here we go again."

"I really don’t get why you can’t just be happy. Isn’t it good that my mom, my sister, and the nanny are all here to help with Maddie?"

His words sounded reasonable, but I heard the frustration underneath. He thought I was being ungrateful, making trouble where there wasn’t any.

I shook my head, speaking slowly:

I chose my words carefully, not wanting to start another fight. My voice was soft but firm.

"The nanny just cooks. Your mom holds her for ten minutes when you’re home. Your sister gets annoyed if she even hears the baby cry."

The truth sat heavy between us. I waited, hoping he’d understand. He didn’t.

Derek’s voice dropped.

He spoke quieter, but with more force. His eyes narrowed, the conversation closing like a door.

"Aubrey, are you badmouthing my family now? You don’t have to do anything—just nurse and play with her. For a mom, spending every day with her kid, isn’t that the best life?"

He made it sound so simple, so easy. I bit back all the things I wanted to say.

I stared at the floor, silent.

The carpet pattern blurred in my vision. I blinked hard, refusing to let tears fall.

After a long pause, I said softly,

My voice was barely a whisper, but the words slipped out anyway.

"Happy, but not joyful."

The words hung between us, unnoticed. I watched the shadow of his back as he turned away.

Derek didn’t hear me. He went into the closet to change.

He shut the closet door behind him, the sound final. I wondered if I’d ever get him back—or if I even wanted to.