My Husband Told Me His “Work Wife” Was An Upgrade. Then I Found Out He Was Paying Her Rent While Telling Me To Budget. How Should I Handle This Dinner Invite?
The Final Email
My email notification pings Friday afternoon while I’m grading spelling tests and I glance at my phone to see a message from Craig’s company with the subject line “Holiday party invitation.” My finger hovers over it for a second before I realize it must have been sent to me by mistake, probably still in some old contact list from when I attended as Craig’s wife.
I delete it without opening and go back to marking papers feeling nothing but mild irritation at the administrative error. 6 months ago that email would have sent me spiraling imagining Craig and Jessica at the party together or wondering if people were talking about me. Now it’s just digital clutter that takes 2 seconds to remove from my inbox.
The fact that I don’t care, that it doesn’t even create a little twist in my stomach, shows me how much has changed. That chapter closed and I’m not interested in reopening it even for a moment of curiosity. I finish the spelling tests, pack up my classroom and drive home thinking about what to make for dinner and whether I should start a new pottery project tonight.
The Wobbling Bowl
8 months after that confrontation dinner I’m sitting cross-legged on my living room floor working on a ceramic bowl that’s probably going to crack in the kiln but I’m making it anyway. My hands are covered in clay and there’s music playing from my phone and the weekend trip itinerary Laya sent is pulled up on my laptop screen.
We’re going hiking in a state park 2 hours away, staying in a cabin and spending two days doing absolutely nothing productive.
My life looks nothing like I imagined it would a year ago when I was married and living in that house and teaching kindergarten while trying to be the wife Craig wanted. This version is smaller in some ways—my apartment instead of a house, single income instead of two—but it’s completely mine in a way that matters more than square footage.
I’m not perfectly healed and I still have moments where I wonder if I’ll ever fully trust someone again, but I’m building something real here. A life where I respect myself enough to demand respect from others, where I value my own needs instead of always putting someone else first, where I’m enough exactly as I am. The bowl wobbles a little under my hands and I steady it, shaping it into something that might be useful or might just be beautiful. And either way, it’ll be exactly what I meant to be.
