Page 103 of The Humiliated Wife
"You okay, Fi?" Marcy asked, noticing her distraction.
"Yeah, just..." Fiona forced a smile. "I'm happy for you. Really. You deserve someone who prioritizes you."
"We all do," Emma said pointedly.
But as Marcy launched into another story about Travis's recent thoughtfulness—how he'd picked up her favorite coffee without being asked, how he'd actually scheduled his own dentist appointment—Fiona found herself thinking about Dean.
The way he used to take care of her, before everything went wrong.
And the way he still tried to take care of her, even now.
She could still feel his hands on her back, the way he'd held her on Emma's porch. The way her body had remembered being safe in his arms before her brain could remind her why that was dangerous.
Fiona shook her head, trying to clear the thought. That Dean was gone. Had maybe never existed at all.
But the wanting—God, the wanting was still there, stubborn and aching and impossible to ignore.
Even as every other piece of her life was finally falling into place. Emma and Marcy were happy—safe and grounded in relationships that felt real. Her students had everything they needed this year, thanks to classroom funding that had seemed impossible months ago. Her bank account wasn’t in free-fall. The worst of the divorce paperwork was behind her.
She was rebuilding. Reclaiming.
But the heartbreak?
The heartbreak had lingered like smoke after a fire. Less visible now, maybe. But it still clung to everything.
Still caught her off guard in the quiet moments. Still curled around the edges of joy, reminding her of the person who’d once promised to be her soft place to land—and who, in the end, had helped her fall.
She sipped her tea and tried to smile, letting Marcy's voice and Emma's laughter fill the space.
The life she was creating was good.
It just wasn’t whole yet.
Fiona slumpedinto one of the plastic chairs in the faculty lounge, balancing her coffee and a stack of ungraded math tests. The monthly staff meeting was never her favorite part of the job—usually just budget cuts disguised as "resource reallocation" and new administrative hoops to jump through.
The school’s principal shuffled through the papers at the front of the room, looking unusually cheerful for a Monday afternoon meeting.
"Before we get to the usual business," she said, "I have some genuinely good news for once."
A ripple of surprised murmurs went through the room. Good news was rare enough to be noteworthy.
"Our website donations have tripled in the past month,” she said, her smile widening. "Tripled. Some of our programs are fully funded for the first time in years."
Fiona nearly dropped her coffee. She looked around at her colleagues' faces—the same shocked expression reflected on everyone.
"Are you serious?" asked one of the second grade teachers.
"What changed?" Fiona asked.
The principal shrugged. "Someone's been doing pro bono marketing work for the district. Really professional stuff. Whoever's helping us behind the scenes really knows what they're doing."
Someone had cared enough about their little district to donate their professional expertise. Someone had looked at their struggling programs and decided to help, asking for nothing in return.
Someone showing that they saw the work teachers did and thought it mattered. Someone showing up in a way that said:I see you. I respect what you do. I want to help, not just applaud from a distance.
It was everything Dean’s undercutting hadn’t been. No jokes at their expense. No pretending to admire her work while quietly mocking it to his friends. This was the opposite of that.
If onlyDeancould be the type of person to do something like this. If only he could see her worth.
