In the photo, Emily sat beside Jason, beaming with joy. The caption read: “Jason said he’ll throw me the grand birthday party I never had.”
Jason’s birthday parties were always gatherings of high society elites.
Yet I, his legal wife, had to learn about it from someone else’s social media post.
I turned off my phone, unwilling to see more.
The pain in my body grew more frequent, each wave like countless needles piercing my heart.
I knew the “2” wouldn’t last much longer.
So I began writing letters—to my parents, to my friends.
I wanted to tell them how much I loved them, and to beg them not to grieve for me.
For me, death would be a release.
Halfway through, my phone rang.
It was Jason.
I hesitated, but answered.
“Rachel, where are you?” His voice sounded tired.
“At home.”
“Tomorrow is Emily’s birthday party. You’re coming with me.”
His tone wasn’t a request. It was a command.
I laughed, the sound hollow and bitter.
“Jason, why should I go?”
“Because you’re my wife!” he snapped, emphasizing each word.
“I won’t have my face disgraced in front of the guests.”
Always about appearances.
In his eyes, the only value I had was to preserve his ridiculous pride.
“Fine. I’ll go,” I agreed.