Page 78 of Shattered Dreams
AVA
The notification pops up on my phone while I'm making lunch for Poppy. Roman's Instagram username: A new post.
I haven't looked at his social media in weeks. I couldn't stand seeing the headlines, the comments, the endless dissection of our marriage by strangers who think they know our story. But something makes me click on it this time.
Maybe it's the fact that he's been quiet lately. He hasn’t shown up unannounced. No more desperate phone calls or scenes in parking lots that end up on the evening news.
But I have done one thing: I’ve stopped with the whole dating thing. The sad reality is no one makes me feel like Roman does; and that’s because I don't want them to. I feel like I had the most beautiful relationship, and nothing can bring that back, but that’s what I want.
Such a fucking conundrum.
The video starts, and I almost drop my phone.
Roman doesn’t look like Roman; he looksawful. Unshaven, his hair is unwashed and sticking up at odd angles. This isn't thepolished Roman Muller who used to do press conferences. This is just...a broken man.
My heart sinks.
"Me again," he says, his voice rough and low. "I fucked up my whole life. My wife. My family. I threw it all away."
I set the peanut butter jar down harder than necessary, my hands suddenly unsteady.
"I've been in therapy a while now," he continues.
Therapy. He's been in therapy, and this is the first I'm hearing about it. Not from him directly, but from a public Instagram video that's probably being watched by thousands of people right now.
I should be angry. I should be furious that he's airing our business, using our pain for content, playing the victim for sympathy.
But he's not asking for sympathy. He's not even asking for anything.
"I'm not looking for pity here. Or forgiveness. I don't deserve either one. I just want to be better. For me. For my daughter who used to think I was some kind of hero. For Ava. Even if I never get her back."
Something twists in my chest. Like it hurts him to say it. Like he's not sure he has the right anymore.
The video ends, and I stare at the black screen, my reflection looking as stunned as I feel.
There's another video from yesterday.
"I watched my wife give a speech yesterday about resilience," he says, and I realize he's talking about the empowerment event. The one where I spoke about finding your voice after trauma, about rebuilding yourself from the ground up.
"She's not just surviving what I did to her. She's thriving," he continues, and there's something in his voice I've never heard before. Pride, yes, but also grief. "She doesn't need me to bewhole. She never did. Ava, I’m so fucking proud of you, baby. But if I ever want to be worthy of standing beside her again—if that's even possible—I've got to keep doing this work. Not for her. For me. Because the man who destroyed our marriage isn't the man I want to be anymore.”
Then it feels like he’s looking directly at me, and I bite my lip.
"I'm done being the guy who breaks everything he touches. Starting right now."
I close the app before I can watch any more. My hands are shaking, and I can't figure out why.
Poppy runs into the kitchen, ponytail bouncing, completely oblivious to the storm happening inside my chest.
"Mommy, can I have the peanut butter sandwich now? I'm starving."
"Of course, baby." I finish making her lunch on autopilot, spreading peanut butter with mechanical precision while my mind races.
Later, after Poppy's in bed, I find myself scrolling through his posts again. There aren't many recent ones—his last post before the therapy videos was from two months ago, some sponsored content for a sports drink that probably dropped him the minute the scandal broke.
The comments on his recent videos are a mix of support and vitriol. Some people call him brave for being vulnerable. Others call him a manipulative asshole who's trying to win back public sympathy.
I don't know which camp I fall into.
