Page 1 of October
PROLOGUE
I'm one of the Odd Ones. Not the loudest. Not the closest to anyone in particular. Not the kind you notice first. But Ishow up. Every year. Every time I can. My life—motherhood, marriage, managing chaos—doesn't leave much room for anything else.
I have three children, a home that never quite sits still, and a husband I married young. We were high school sweethearts—well, I was sweet, and he was heartless in that clean, detached way that only made me fall harder. I think everyone saw it. How head-over-heels I was. How he married me not because he couldn't live without me, but because I was so deeply, visibly in love, and he was ready to settle down.
He never mistreated me. Never raised his voice. Never raised his hand. He provided everything I asked for. A home. Stability. Time carved out for the kids. But not for me. I would plan date nights, book surprise getaways—he'd smile politely and say, "That's sweet, but not now." There was always something more important. Work. Fatigue. Meetings.
And I was fine with it. For years. Because my love was big enough for both of us. Or so I thought.
Untilshearrived.
Laura. His workwife. Young, polished, funny, endlessly charming. I met her at a company party once. She hugged me like we were old friends. Complimented my dress. Called me "lucky." Smiled the kind of smile that doesn't reach the eyes.
I watched him around her. My husband—who rarely laughs, who barely jokes—laughing with her. Inside jokes. Knowing glances. She spoke like they were a team. And he didn't correct her. Just smiled and joined in.
And from then on, everything changed.
He started showing up late. Missing plans. Postponing family dinners. Cancelling our date nights, forgetting anniversaries. Each time, there was a work call, a meeting, a last-minute issue that requiredher. I kept waiting for it to end. Waiting for the novelty to fade. Waiting for him to look at me and remember.
But months passed. And I stayed on the sidelines, hoping he'd choose me again.
Then came my birthday. The kids were in on it—planning a surprise party. Only they're terrible at keeping secrets. They told me to expect something fun. Something special.
So I waited.
And waited.
And then my phone rang.
"Hey. Sorry, I can't make it tonight. Laura's cat is missing. She called me crying."
I blinked. "Hercat?"
"Yeah, she sounded hysterical. We were already talking about tomorrow's presentation, and then she realized the cat was gone. I don't know when I'll be back."
"She doesn't have anyone else but her boss?"
"Don't be callous-hearted. She's inconsolable. I've got to go help her look."
He hung up.
The kids looked at me with wide, waiting eyes.
"What happened?" my youngest asked.
Before I could answer, my oldest—barely a teenager—shrugged. "If it's about Laura, forget it. She comes first."
Something shattered in me.
The world tilted.
And suddenly, I saw myself through their eyes. Througheveryone'seyes.
Pathetic. Hopelessly in love with a man who puts someone else first. Teaching my daughter to accept breadcrumbs. Teaching my son that being cold and absent is enough.
In that moment, it wasn't about Laura. It wasn't about the cat.
It was about me. Finally seeing myself clearly.
