Let’s Divorce, My Husband

For twenty years, I’d been the invisible wife, the forgotten mother.

So when I saw a beautiful cake sitting on the kitchen table this morning–on my 45th birthday—my heart fluttered.

Maybe they finally remembered.

I reached for the knife, hands trembling, and sliced into it slowly, ready to taste with the fork halfway to my mouth when a sharp voice

of my husband cut through the moment.

“What the hell are you doing, Trina?” Jackson snapped, storming in.

I froze.

He marched toward me and ripped the plate from my hands like I’d committed a crime.

“Why are you eating that?”

I blinked.

“I–I thought it was for me.”