Page 63 of You Will Never Be Me

“I tried being authentic, for a while. But—” I give a rueful laugh. “The real me? Is a mess, you guys. I don’t get up at five in the morning to do sun salutations before making sourdough focaccia from scratch. Who does that? Well, you know who does? Everybody on Instagram and TikTok, it seems. I felt like everyone else, every momfluencer on here, has their shit together. And I’m the only one missing the puzzle pieces to make it all make sense. I watched all this mom content and tried so hard to be like them, but I couldn’t do it.” And here, I let the tears come. “I don’t have my shit together like the other momfluencers do. I’m a mess. The only way I can keep up with everyone else on here is to fake it. So that was what I did. What you saw in that video of me pushing my kids into getting in bed at four in the afternoon? That was sheer desperation. And I hate myself so much for doing that. I am sorry. From now on, I promise, no more filters. In fact, I’m going to start showing you the real stuff. I’ll show you a curated, edited video, followed by the real, full-length video to show you just how much it takes to come up with good TikTok- or Insta-friendly content. Until then, thank you for watching.”

I end the recording and look down at Noemie. She looks up at me. “That was good.”

“Really?” I wipe the tears from my face and smile at her.

“Yeah. Did you really mean it? About showing them the real stuff?” Noemie says.

“Yeah.”

She gives me a small smile. “Cool. Can I go watchPeppa Pignow?”

“Yes. Thank you for being here for Mommy.” I hug her tight and then let her go, smiling as she skips out of the room. Then I send the video off to Helena with the message: “How’s this?” Two minutes later, she replies: “Perfect. I knew you could do it.”

I swallow, hesitating, then I open up TikTok and upload the video. For the caption, I type out: “Real talk. No more filters. #authenticity.” I take a deep breath. Here goes. I hit Post.

I don’t sit there waiting around for the responses to come in. As soon as it’s up on TikTok, I close down the app and post the video to Instagram. Then I close that, too, and go out of the twins’ room and into the kitchen, where I open the fridge and start taking out ingredients to make dinner. As I take out a few bell peppers, it hits me that, for once, I don’t need to pretend that they’re freshly picked from my backyard, nor do I need to worry about the position of my arms as I chop the veg, because there isn’t a phone camera hovering over the cutting board. For once, all I need to do is simply cook.

I’m chopping the bell peppers when Ben saunters into the kitchen. Right away, from his body language, I know to expect a fight. My guard goes up, though I’m careful not to show it. I keep my eyes on the chopping board, refusing to give him an opening for an argument. He strolls past me to the fridge. By the clicking of the glass bottle, I know he’s taken out a beer. I bite my tongue.Just focus on the bell peppers.

“What’s for dinner?” he says. There is a clink as he opens the bottle.

“Just a simple roasted butternut squash and bell pepper soup. We’ve got half a loaf of ciabatta that’ll go really well with it.”

“Hmm,” Ben says, taking a big gulp of beer. He leans against the countertop, uncomfortably close to me. As I chop, my left elbow grazes his arm, and goose bumps break out across my arms. It’s not a pleasant touch, not a romantic one. It feels as though I’ve touched an eel. But I won’t be the first one to move away.

Since when did I start fearing my husband? I don’t understand when this shift happened. Has he always had this meanness in him? Have I just been so preoccupied with everything else that I failed to notice his sharp edges? Or did this whole thing break him, and in doing so, created jagged pieces that are now attempting to slice me open?

“I saw your video,” Ben says. Another swig. The bottle must be half-empty already, and he only opened it half a minute ago.

“Oh?” I won’t ask him what he thinks about it. I won’t. “What do you think about it?” Damn it.

“ ’Sgood. Is that what your lawyer told you to do?” The words “your lawyer” are said in a very pointed tone.

“Yeah. She said it’s important for me to win back public opinion.”

“Well, you should be used to that by now,” Ben says.

What’s that supposed to mean? I want to snap, but I know perfectly well what he meant by it. I refuse to show him how needled I am by that statement. Smiling, I say, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“What else did you and your lawyer talk about?”

This feels more like an interrogation than a conversation. Ifinish chopping up the last of the bell pepper and move on to the squash. “Well, it was mostly me filling her in on everything. I guess that’s what most first-time consultations are. But I liked her. I think I’m in good hands.”

Ben scoffs, and I pretend not to hear it. “Did you really tell her everything?”

“Yeah, of course I did.”

Ben takes another swallow of beer. “Because you shouldn’t hide things from your attorney.”

This time, I turn to face him, the knife I’m using to chop vegetables gripped tight in my hand. “What are you trying to say, Ben?”

He shakes his head. There is so much mistrust and judgment in the way he looks at me that I instinctively want to hide behind the counter to put as much between us as possible. After a beat, he says, “See, the thing that keeps niggling at the back of my mind, Aspen, is…where were you that night?”

Ice trails down my spine. “What night?”

“About a month ago, we had a fight. One of many,” he snorts. “You said you were going to sleep in Sabine’s room. I went to get a beer, but we were out, so I went out and got some. Went to bed. In the morning, I woke up, and there you were: my beautiful, perfect wife, cooking breakfast for the family as usual.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” I turn away from him and start chopping up the butternut squash so he won’t see the guilt that must be written all over my face. My very hot face. My gaze is kept with laser focus on the squash I’m slicing into, but my brain isn’t registering anything aside from his words.

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