Chapter 1: Ten Years Waiting for Nothing

I loved Derek Whitman for a full ten years. Ten years of waiting for a sign, a word, anything—while the world kept spinning and I kept holding my breath.

Ten years—a decade of holidays, birthdays, quiet Tuesday nights. That kind of love leaves grooves on your soul, like the faded dents in a favorite armchair, always there even when you’re not looking.

He was always distant, but he never once objected to our marriage.

He’d nod at family dinners, shrug off questions at gatherings, never correcting anyone who called me his fiancée. It was as if he’d built a fence around himself and I was allowed to stand just outside, watching from the other side.

I thought that meant he was willing, too.

I told myself so, anyway. At night, lying in the guest room at the Whitmans’ house, I’d replay every interaction, every half-smile, every moment he didn’t walk away.

Until that day, when I braved the pouring rain to bring him his antacid.

That morning, I checked the weather and thought about how Derek always forgot his medication, especially when he was out late. I slipped the bottle in my purse like it was a talisman—proof that I still mattered to him in some small way.

I happened to run into the young woman from a partner company, urging him to drink.

She was laughing, a little too loudly, her hair swinging over her shoulder as she pressed a glass toward him. The kind of scene you might see at a downtown bar in any city, right before things tip from friendly to something more.

I stepped forward to stop her, but he looked at me with disdain and said:

"You really think you run this family, Lillian?"

His voice cut through the background music, cold and sharp as winter air. For a second, everyone seemed to freeze, eyes flickering between us.

"Why can’t you just mind your own business for once?"

He didn’t even bother to look at me as he spoke, just reached for the glass as if I was invisible.

The jukebox in the corner croaked out an old Springsteen song. Someone spilled beer nearby, the sticky scent mixing with fried onion rings and wet wool.

In the noisy bar, my tears mixed with the rain as they fell.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the bottle. I wanted to scream, to throw the damn pills at his head, but all I could do was stand there and take it.

I blinked furiously, not wanting anyone to see. The bar’s neon lights blurred with the streaks on my cheeks, every laugh around me just twisting the knife.

Derek Whitman, from now on, your life has nothing to do with me.

I said it in my head first, then under my breath as I turned away, feeling the weight of those ten years crumble.