Page 77 of Moms of Mayhem
Stevie
The sluttiest thing you own. I need you to bang that man and report back.
Shannon
Do you own anything slutty or is it all leggings? Do I need to come over and choose for you?
Stevie
Yes, do that. I’m saying yes for you, Emmy, because this is my personal mission now.
I’m wearing sparkles. Shannon, bring your black eyeliner and general rage.
Shannon
Done.
Emmy
As our lord and savior Shania Twain once said, Let’s go girls.
Stevie
LONG LIVE THE MOMS OF MAYHEM
Shannon
God help us all.
I rolled over in bed, grinning as I stared at my phone for a multitude of reasons. It had been a long time since I’d had as much fun as I did last night. And that kiss?
I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Butterflies took flight in my belly at the thought of seeing him again tonight.
Since Beckett had a doctor’s appointment this morning, we’d canceled our normal training session, and the studio was closed for two days to give my staff some much-needed vacation time.
Jace had been texting me off and on while he was in Connecticut, and last night he’d even gone to a New York Empire game. The picture he sent was a selfie of him in a new hockey sweater and matching hat.
He was alone, but I could see the chubby little leg of his half-brother in the photo, as if my son had tried to shield me from the reality of our circumstance.
A year ago, I’d been crushed about Ryan’s infidelity. Knowing I wasn’t the only woman in his life wasn’t as devastating as it should have been—I think deep down I knew it, even before it was confirmed. The late nights, the text messages, the trips away that didn’t quite line up with his work calendar.
But the baby—that hurt far more than I wanted to relive. I’d wanted more kids our entire marriage, and Ryan had always said no, that our lives were too full, as it was.
That paternity test in the mail was the slap in the face Ineeded. The reminder that I’d put my life on hold for a man who wasn’t present, who didn’t love me, and didn’t prioritize my son.
Ryan had a way of spinning things to make everything seem like my fault—if I hadn’t been so demanding, maybe he would have stayed. If I’d just smiled more, complained less, stopped needing so much, maybe I could’ve held his attention.
For a long time, I believed him. I twisted myself into knots trying to be easier, quieter, more agreeable. I thought if I could fix myself, I could fix us.
Then came the anger—slow-burning at first, like a pilot light. It flared every time I remembered the gaslighting, the deflection, the way he dismissed my concerns like I was crazy for even having them.
I grieved the life I thought we were building, the future I’d imagined for our family. I grieved the version of me that believed love meant shrinking myself to fit him.
But now… now I could see it clearly.
It wasn’t me. It wasneverme.
