Twenty years. I stared at the calendar on my phone, the little heart emoji I'd added to today's date mocking me with its cheerful red glow. Twenty years of marriage. Two decades of being Mrs. David Ashford. And here I was, sitting alone at our dining room table with two plates of cold pasta and a bottle of wine I'd already finished half of by myself. The front door clicked open at 10:47 PM. I didn't look up from my wine glass. I'd learned years ago that looking up, showing expectation, only made the disappointment sharper. "Elena?" David's voice carried that distracted quality I'd grown so familiar with. Not quite present, never fully here. "You still up?" "Happy anniversary," I said, my voice flat. Silence. The kind that screamed louder than words. "Shit." He appeared in the doorway of the dining room, his tie loosened, phone still glowing in his hand. "Elena, I'm so sorry. The Henderson merger—" "It's fine." I cut him off, finally meeting his eyes. He looked tired. But then again, so did I. "The pasta's cold. There's some in the kitchen if you want to reheat it." He set his phone face-down on the table—a small gesture that once would have meant something. Now it just meant he was going through the motions of caring. "I really am sorry," he said, sliding into the chair across from me. The chair that had been empty for three hours. "This deal is just—" "Important. I know." I poured the last of the wine into my glass. "Everything is always important, David." He reached for my hand, and I let him take it. His fingers were cold, his touch perfunctory. When had we stopped feeling warm to each other? "We can celebrate this weekend," he offered. "I'll take you to Marcello's. We'll make a whole day of it." Marcello's. The restaurant where he'd proposed twenty-one years ago, when I was eighteen and terrified and three months pregnant. Where his mother had sat two tables away, watching with those judgmental eyes, making sure her son did "the right thing" after ruining his future with the poor girl from the trailer park. I'd worn a borrowed dress that day. I'd said yes because I didn't know what else to do, because I came from nothing and he came from everything, and surely that meant he could save me. What a stupid, naive girl I'd been. "That sounds nice," I lied, pulling my hand back to reach for my wine. David's phone buzzed. His eyes flicked to it instantly, that Pavlovian response he'd developed over the years. Work. Always work. Or at least, that's what he called it. "I should take this," he said, already standing. "Of course you should." He paused, something flickering across his face. Guilt? Annoyance? I couldn't tell anymore. "Elena—" "Just take the call, David." He left, phone pressed to his ear, and I sat alone again. Story of my life. I'd gotten pregnant at eighteen during what was supposed to be a one-night thing at a college party I'd snuck into. David had been twenty-two, home from business school for the summer, slumming it with the locals. I'd been a high school senior working two jobs to save for community college, desperate to escape the stench of cheap vodka and broken promises that filled my mother's trailer. One night. One mistake. One positive test that changed everything. His mother, Patricia Ashford, had made it very clear what was expected. David would marry me—the Ashfords didn't abandon their responsibilities. But I would need to become someone worthy of the family name. No more dreams of college. No more plans for independence. I would be molded into the perfect wife, trained like some kind of project in respectability. And I'd let her do it. God help me, I'd been so grateful for the stability, the clean house, the full refrigerator, that I'd let Patricia Ashford strip away every piece of who I might have become. I learned which fork to use at dinner parties. How to arrange flowers for charity galas. The proper way to address David's business associates. How to smile and nod and never, ever mention where I came from. I became exactly what they wanted. And I lost the baby anyway. Twelve weeks along, my body had simply given up. The doctors said these things happen, that it wasn't anyone's fault. But I knew the truth. Even my own child hadn't wanted to stay with me. David had held me while I cried. His mother had patted my hand and said, "Well, at least you're married now. You can try again when you're ready." As if the wedding band on my finger had been the real goal all along. We never did try again. David threw himself into work. I threw myself into being the perfect wife. We built a beautiful life on a foundation of obligation and loss, and somehow twenty years passed. I stood from the table, leaving the cold pasta and empty wine bottle behind. Upstairs, I could hear David's voice, animated in a way it never was with me anymore. I walked past our bedroom to the guest room at