“She’s not wife material. She’s great to live with, sure. Life is easy with her. But a wife? No. That’s different.”
I froze.
My gym bag slipped off my shoulder, and I caught it before it hit the floor.
“I know,” he said. “I’m still waiting to meet the one. Emma’s comfortable. There’s a difference.”
Comfortable.
That was what I was.
Not loved.
Not chosen.
Comfortable.
I pressed one hand against the wall to steady myself.
The apartment suddenly felt unfamiliar. Cold, even.
Eight years of loyalty, patience, family holidays, shared bills, quiet hope, and waiting.
And all along, I had been a placeholder.
I did not cry.
I did not burst into the room.
I did not give him a chance to soften the words with excuses.
