Page 9 of Letting Go

And if he’s not getting it from me, he’s getting it from someone else. Let’s not pretend men just…stop. Especially not Mike. Especially not when his ego runs on admiration like a gas-guzzling truck. And if I had to bet actual money? I’d put it on Mackenna.

Work bestie. Right.

I shut down that "work wife" title the first time I heard it. Fast. Brutal. With a smile that said try me again and I’ll burn the whole office down.

But Mackenna, she’s the kind of woman who hides venom behind vocal fry and a pink manicure. Always just a little too close, too available, too breathy when she says his name.

“Oh Leni,” she’d cooed at the last office party, fake-laughing behind her wine glass, “I honestly don’t know how you manage being a wife and a lawyer. You’re superwoman.”

Translation: You’re selfish for wanting a career. You’re not giving him enough.

Then there was the time she said, actually said, “I could never leave my husband alone at home for days. I’d just worry something might… happen.”

And my personal favourite, the one I’ve replayed in the shower, in the car, staring at my ceiling like I’m trying to summon restraint from the drywall:

“I hope poor Michael doesn’t get too lonely.”

Poor Michael.

God, screw her.

I smiled then. I smiled like I wasn’t ready to slap the collagen out of her face. I smiled like her words didn’t stab me right in the chest, because that’s what we do, right? Women like me, we smile. We pretend. We put the lipstick over the bruise.

But something in me shifted that night. Just a notch. Just enough. Because I’ve seen the way he lights up when she walks in. The way She laughs at his jokes, even the dumb ones. The way his phone lights up and he turns the screen just slightly away.

I used to believe I’d know if he cheated. That I’d feel it. That some inner siren would scream. But it turns out betrayal isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s the absence of something that used to be there. A missed text. A turned back. A cold pillow.

And now I can’t stop asking myself the question I’ve been avoiding:

If he already has someone else…

Then what the hell am I still doing here?

Chapter 5

Hannah walks into Café Amore like she’s in a damn perfume commercial. Loose waves, soft smile, that glowy, glossy, just-had-sex-and-a-fruit-smoothie look. She practically skips to our table, like happiness has given her joints extra bounce.

“You look happy,” I say, narrowing my eyes, because I’m suspicious of anyone radiating this much serotonin before noon.

She shrugs, grinning. “I am happy.”

And I believe her. God help me, I do. You can’t fake thus level of effortless, warm-blooded unless you’ve either just fallen in love or finally got your period after a pregnancy scare.

“So… things between you and Eli are good?” I ask, stabbing at the lemon wedge floating in my water like it personally offended me.

“They’re great.” She leans in like we’re teenage girls again and says, almost whispering, “He finally told his mom to take a hike and we decided to start trying for a baby.”

I blink. “Wait. What? Like… now-now?”

“Yeah,” she beams. “I already quit my job. Eli and I are screwing like bunnies.”

I choke on air. “Ah. There it is. That glow. A good old-fashioned sex glow. What finally made him say bye-bye to smother-in-law?”

She laughs, tossing her hair back. “We had a half-day a few Saturdays ago,” she says. She teaches high school, “Eli’s car was in the shop, so he was using mine. He picked me up and we decided to grab lunch.” She winks, her voice dipping into the conspiratorial. “And we were... right there on the kitchen counter. Just as I got on all fours, bam! The front door slams open and in walks mommy.”

I blink. “No.”

“Oh yes. Apparently, seeing my car parked in the driveway during the day constituted an ‘emergency.’” She rolls her eyes so hard I think they might stay that way. “And unlike a normal human being, she just stood there while we scrambled to get dressed. Then she calls me a whore. Right to my face. Guess seeing her baby boy mid-thrust knocked the filter right off her.”

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