Chapter 3
I waited until I heard Brett brushing his teeth in the master bathroom, the electric toothbrush humming its two-minute cycle.
Thursday night, and we hadn't touched each other in three weeks.
Not even accidentally bumping hands while reaching for the remote.
I'd been counting, which was pathetic, but there it was.
When he came to bed, I was already under the covers wearing the black silk nightgown I'd bought months ago and never had the courage to put on. It felt ridiculous now, like I was playing dress-up in someone else's life, but I needed to try something. Anything.
He slipped into his side of the bed without looking at me, his attention already absorbed by his phone. The blue light illuminated his face as he scrolled through what I assumed were work emails or stock prices or whatever was more interesting than his wife trying to seduce him.
I moved closer, letting my hand rest on his torso. His skin was warm through his t-shirt, and for a moment I remembered what it used to feel like when touching him was natural instead of calculated.
"Hey," I said softly, leaning in to kiss his neck just below his ear. The spot that used to make him pull me closer and forget about everything else in the world.
"I'm really tired, Lauren," he said without putting down his phone. Not even glancing at me. Just stating a fact like he was declining an invitation to a dinner party he had no interest in attending.
I kissed his shoulder, my hand moving lower across his ribs. "It's been a while," I whispered, even though my heart was hammering. "I miss you."
Brett finally looked at me, and I saw something in his eyes that made my stomach drop. Not desire or even affection. Just mild irritation, like I was interrupting something important.
"I'm not feeling great," he said, setting his phone on the nightstand with a definitive click. "Rain check?"
Rain check. Like sex with his wife was a tennis game that could be rescheduled when the weather improved.
"When was the last time we didn't need a rain check?" I asked, sitting up slightly. The silk nightgown suddenly seemed like a costume I was wearing to audition for a part I'd already lost.
Brett sighed and rolled over to face away from me, pulling his pillow up higher around his head. "Can we not do this tonight? I've got the Bradshaw presentation first thing in the morning."
And that was it. Conversation over. Marriage over, for all intents and purposes.
Within ten minutes, he was snoring. Deep, regular breathing that proved he really wasn't feeling unwell, just uninterested. In me. In us. In the woman lying next to him wearing expensive lingerie and feeling like the most unwanted person on the planet.
I stared at the ceiling for two hours, listening to him sleep peacefully while I fell apart in slow motion. My husband didn't want me. Not sexually, not emotionally, not in any way that mattered. I'd become wallpaper in my own marriage, pretty enough to look at but too ordinary to really notice.
The realization slammed into me like a wave. This wasn't just a rough patch or a busy season at work but who we'd become. We were just two strangers sharing a bed and a mortgage and nothing else.
At two in the morning, I gave up on sleep and crept downstairs to the kitchen. I made myself a cup of chamomile tea and sat at the island with my laptop, typing "therapists near me" into the search bar.
Dr. Leah Jones came up first, her profile showing a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and credentials that suggested she specialized in exactly the kind of quiet desperation I was drowning in.
Individual therapy for women navigating life transitions.
Marriage counseling.
Depression and anxiety.
Her next available appointment was Wednesday at three o'clock. I booked it before I could talk myself out of it, typing in my credit card information with shaking hands. Brett's snoring drifted down from upstairs, a soundtrack to my middle-of-the-night breakdown.
For the first time in years, I felt certain that Brett was cheating on me.
The feeling struck me suddenly, this absolute knowledge that had been lurking in the back of my mind for months.
His distance, his irritation when I tried to connect, his complete lack of interest in physical intimacy.
Men didn't just stop wanting sex unless they were getting it somewhere else.
I closed the laptop and sat in the dark kitchen, holding my tea and feeling like my life was unraveling one thread at a time.
Wednesday afternoon, I sat in Dr. Leah Jones's office trying to figure out how to explain that my life looked perfect from the outside but felt empty from the inside.
Her office was warm and comfortable, filled with plants and soft lighting that made it easy to forget you were paying someone to listen to your problems.
"What brings you here today, Lauren?" Dr. Jones asked, settling into her chair across from me. She was probably in her mid-fifties, with graying hair and the kind of calm presence that made you want to tell her everything.
"I think my marriage is over," I said, my response immediate. "But I don't know if I'm being dramatic or if it's really as bad as it feels."
"Tell me about that feeling," she said gently.
I tried to find the right words to describe the slow suffocation of the past few years. The way Brett looked through me instead of at me, how conversations about anything deeper than logistics made him uncomfortable, and the way I'd started to feel like a ghost in my own house.
"It's like I'm disappearing," I said finally. "Like I've become invisible to the person who's supposed to love me most. And I don't know if it's because I've changed or because he has, or if we just grew apart so gradually that neither of us noticed until it was too late."
Dr. Jones nodded, making notes in a leather-bound journal. "How long have you been feeling this way?"
"Years," I admitted. "It started slowly, after the kids got older and Brett's career really took off. But it's gotten worse lately. The other night I tried to initiate intimacy, and he brushed me off like I was annoying him. We haven't had sex in almost a month."
"That must have felt very painful."
I started crying then, tears I'd been holding back for months. "I feel like I'm begging for scraps of attention from my own husband. Like I'm pathetic for wanting him to notice me or care about what I think or feel."
Dr. Jones handed me a box of tissues. "You're not pathetic for wanting connection, Lauren. That's a basic human need."
We talked for the full hour, and by the end, I felt like someone had finally seen me.
Really seen me, not just the version of myself I presented to the world.
Dr. Jones gave me homework. Keeping a journal of my feelings, taking evening walks to reconnect with myself, and setting small boundaries to practice saying no.
"I should have come here years ago," I said as our session ended.
"You came when you were ready," she said. "That's what matters now."
Thursday evening, I put on my walking shoes and headed out into the neighborhood. Dr. Jones had suggested evening walks as a way to reconnect with myself, to have time alone with my thoughts without the distractions of home.
The air was cool and fresh, perfect fall weather that made everything feel possible. I walked past houses where families were having dinner, warm light spilling from windows, and tried not to feel envious of lives that looked more connected than mine.
I missed Luna. Our golden retriever had died five months ago after fourteen years of unconditional love, and I still caught myself looking for her when I came home.
Brett had suggested we wait before getting another dog, said we should enjoy the freedom of not having to worry about pet care.
But I thought maybe it was time. Maybe a smaller dog this time, a Maltipoo I could spoil and take on long walks.
Something white and fluffy that would be all mine.
My phone rang as I was turning the corner toward Maple Street. Kimberly's name on the screen made me smile despite everything.
"Hey, baby girl," I answered. "How's the studying going?"
"Brutal as always, but I needed a break to call my favorite person," Kimberly said. "How are you doing, Mom? Really doing?"
"I'm good," I said, then caught myself. "Actually, I'm working on some things. Seeing a therapist, taking walks. Trying to figure myself out again."
"Good," Kimberly said firmly. "I'm proud of you for that. You deserve to be happy."
We walked in silence for a moment, just the sound of my footsteps and her breathing on the other end of the line.
"Mom," she said finally, her tone even more hesitant now. "I need to tell you something, and I don't know how to say it without it sounding terrible."
My heart rate picked up. "What is it?"
"I was in the city last weekend with some friends, and we went to that new Italian place near campus. Mamma Lucia's?" She paused, and I could hear her taking a deep breath. "I saw Dad there."
"Okay," I said slowly, though something cold was already settling in my stomach.
"He was with a woman," Kimberly said quietly. "They were sitting at a corner table, and it looked... intimate. Like, they were holding hands across the table and leaning in close to each other. She was young, Mom. Maybe in her thirties, blonde, really put together."
I stopped walking. Just stood there in the middle of the sidewalk while my world tilted sideways.
"It could have been a business dinner," I said, though weakly.
"Mom." Kimberly's tone was gentle but firm. "Business dinners don't usually involve hand-holding and face-touching. I watched them for like ten minutes, and it was definitely not professional."
I started walking again, faster now, like I could outrun this conversation and what it meant.
"Did he see you?" I asked.
"No, we were across the restaurant and kind of hidden by a pillar. I thought about going over, but honestly, I chickened out. I didn't know what to say."