I've been celebrating my birthday on the wrong day for five years. Not because I'm confused about when I was born. Not because of some quirky family tradition. But because my husband's mistress and I share the same birthday, and apparently, she gets the actual date. I get the day before. The consolation prize. The participation trophy of marriage. "Babe, I need you to pack my swim trunks. The blue ones." Ryan breezes through our bedroom, phone pressed to his ear, laughing at something the person on the other end said. Not me. Never me anymore. I stare at the suitcase open on our bed. His suitcase. For the tropical diving trip he's taking tomorrow. On my actual birthday. With her. "Sure," I say to his back as he disappears into the bathroom. He doesn't hear me. Or maybe he does and just doesn't care enough to acknowledge it. I've stopped being able to tell the difference. My phone buzzes. A text from my mother: "Lunch tomorrow for your special day? I made reservations at that Italian place you love!" I type back quickly: "Can we do today instead? Something came up for tomorrow." Something. As if my husband choosing his mistress over me is just "something." As if I haven't spent five years making myself smaller, quieter, more convenient. The bathroom door opens and Ryan emerges, cologne cloud trailing behind him. That cologne. The one I bought him for our tenth anniversary. He saves it for special occasions now. Special occasions that don't include me. "Oh, and pack for Ethan too," he says, scrolling through his phone. "He's coming with us." The words hit me like a slap. "Ethan?" My voice sounds strange. Distant. "Our son?" "Yeah, he's been begging to learn to dive. This is perfect." Ryan finally looks up, and I see it—that flash of defiance in his eyes. Daring me to object. Daring me to finally make a scene. Our twelve-year-old son. Choosing them over me. Or maybe not choosing at all. Maybe just following his father's lead, the way kids do, not understanding that his mother will be spending her birthday alone because her husband is too busy fucking someone else. I should scream. I should throw the suitcase at his head. I should have done a lot of things five years ago when I first found the texts, when he cried and begged and promised it meant nothing. Instead, I fold his swim trunks. The blue ones. "Mom said she's fine with it," Ryan continues, oblivious or uncaring. "She'll take him out of school Friday. He's so excited, Mara. You should see his face." His mother knows. Of course she knows. Everyone knows. I'm the only one still pretending this is a marriage. "Great," I manage. Ryan crosses to me, and for a moment—one pathetic, desperate moment—I think he might kiss my forehead. Might show some small tenderness. Instead, he reaches past me to grab his passport from the nightstand. "Oh, before I forget." He pauses at the door. "Text me your birthday wish. You know, for tomorrow. Whatever you want. I'll make it happen when I get back." He smiles. Actually smiles. Like he's being generous. Like he's a good husband. The audacity of it steals my breath. "Anything?" I hear myself ask. "Within reason." He winks. Fucking winks. "No Ferraris." Then he's gone, jogging down the stairs, probably late for whatever he's really rushing off to. Or whoever. I stand in our bedroom—my bedroom, really, since he barely sleeps here anymore—and stare at the half-packed suitcase. At the life I've been folding neatly and tucking away, making it all fit, making it all work. Five years ago, I caught him. Read the messages. Saw the pictures. Not explicit, but intimate in worse ways. Inside jokes. Pet names. The casual affection of people who know each other's bodies, each other's secrets. He cried. God, how he cried. Swore it was over. Swore it meant nothing. Swore he loved only me. I believed him because I wanted to. Because we had Ethan. Because I'd spent fifteen years building this life and couldn't imagine demolishing it. Then her birthday came around. Same day as mine. What were the odds? He took her to dinner. Told me he had a work thing. I found the receipt in his jacket pocket—champagne, oysters, chocolate lava cake with a candle. When I confronted him, he didn't cry that time. "I know how to keep things in their proper place," he said, cold and certain. "This doesn't affect us." And somehow, I let that become true. Let myself be moved to the day before. Let my birthday become the rehearsal for hers. My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to pick it up. I open our text thread. The last message is from three days ago. Me asking if he'd be home for dinner. Him replying with a thumbs up emoji. Romance is dead, and I helped bury it. My thumbs hover over the keyboard. Text him my birthday wish. Anything I want. I start typing.