I lost our baby on a Tuesday. Marcus didn't cry. He held my hand in the hospital room, his thumb moving in slow circles against my palm, and said all the right things. "We'll try again." "It's not your fault." "I'm here." But his phone buzzed twice during those two hours. Both times, the name that flashed across the screen was "Vanessa." His ex-wife. I didn't say anything. I was too hollow to fight, too broken to care. The doctor's words still echoed in my skull—"no heartbeat," "these things happen," "you're young, there will be other chances." My body had failed at the one thing it was supposed to do, and my husband was texting his ex-wife while I bled out our future. That was three months ago. Three months since I stopped being the Elena who brought Marcus coffee at his office, who left little notes in his briefcase, who asked about his day and actually listened to the answers. Three months since I transformed into someone I barely recognize—someone perfect, polished, and completely empty inside. "Elena?" Marcus calls from downstairs. "Have you seen my blue tie?" I'm standing in our bedroom, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back at me is flawless. Hair styled in loose waves. Makeup subtle but expertly applied. Dress fitted in all the right places. She looks like she has everything together. She's a liar. "Second drawer on the left," I call back, my voice steady and pleasant. I hear him rummaging, then his footsteps on the stairs. He appears in the doorway, tie in hand, looking harried. He's got an important meeting today—something about the Henderson account. I know this because I still listen when he talks. I just don't ask questions anymore. "Thanks," he says, moving to the mirror to knot his tie. "You look nice." "Thank you." He glances at me, and something flickers across his face. Confusion, maybe. Or concern. It's gone before I can identify it. "You okay?" he asks. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" "I don't know. You've just been... different lately." I smile. It doesn't reach my eyes, but Marcus doesn't notice. He hasn't noticed much of anything in months. "Different how?" He shrugs, struggling with the tie. "I don't know. Quieter, I guess." I step forward and take over, my fingers working the silk with practiced ease. This close, I can smell his cologne—the same one he wore on our wedding day. My chest tightens, but I keep my expression neutral. "Maybe I'm just growing up," I say lightly. He laughs, but it sounds uncertain. "You were already grown up when I met you." Was I? Sometimes I wonder. The Elena who fell in love with Marcus three years ago seems like a different person entirely. She was twenty-six, optimistic, stupidly convinced that love could conquer anything. Even the ghost of a first wife who still called at odd hours. Even a teenage stepson who looked at her like she was an intruder in his dead mother's house. Except Vanessa isn't dead. She's very much alive, and apparently, very much still in my husband's life. "There," I say, smoothing down his tie. "Perfect." Marcus catches my hand before I can pull away. "Hey. I know things have been hard. Since... you know. But we're okay, right?" The miscarriage. He can't even say the word. "We're fine," I assure him, extracting my hand gently. "You should go. You don't want to be late." He hesitates, like he wants to say more, but his phone buzzes. He checks it, and his expression shifts—something guarded sliding into place. "I have to take this," he says, already moving toward the door. "Of course." I watch him disappear down the hallway, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone he used to reserve for me. I don't follow. I don't eavesdrop. I don't do any of the things the old Elena would have done. Instead, I finish getting ready, pack my bag for work, and head downstairs. Dylan, Marcus's seventeen-year-old son, is in the kitchen, still in his pajamas even though school started twenty minutes ago. He's scrolling through his phone, a bowl of cereal forgotten in front of him. "Good morning," I say pleasantly. He grunts without looking up. Six months ago, I would have reminded him about school. I would have asked if he'd done his homework, if he needed a ride, if everything was okay. I would have tried. Now, I just pour myself coffee and check my own phone. "I'm going out tonight," Dylan announces suddenly. "Okay." He looks up, suspicion narrowing his eyes. "That's it? Just okay?" "Do you need money?" "I... no. Mom's picking me up." Mom. Vanessa. Of course. "Have fun," I say, taking a sip of coffee. Dylan stares at me like I've grown a second head. "You're not going to ask where we're going?" "Should I?" "You usually do." "I'm trying to be less controlling," I say with a smile. "You're almost eighteen. You can make your own decisions." This is a lie. I'm not trying to be less controlling. I'm trying to care less, and it's working beautifully. Every time I let something slide—Dylan's failing grades, his 2 AM curfew violations, the smell of cigarettes on his clothes—I feel a little lighter. A little more detached. A little more ready to disappear. Marcus comes back into the kitchen, pocketing his phone. "That was the office. I might be late tonight." "No problem." He kisses my cheek—a perfunctory gesture, muscle memory from better days. "Love you." "You too." I watch him leave, watch Dylan eventually shuffle upstairs to presumably skip school, and I feel nothing. No anger. No hurt. No desperate need to fix everything. Just a calm, settled certainty. This marriage is already over. Marcus just doesn't know it yet. My phone buzzes. A text from my lawyer: *Papers are ready whenever you are.* I delete the message and finish my coffee. Soon. But not yet. First, I need to become so perfect, so utterly unobjectionable, that when I finally leave, Marcus will have no one to blame but himself.