“Thanks, Steve ”
That night, while he showered with the bathroom door locked, I found his open laptop. His mom’s message read:
“We’re being treated like queens.”
“How long are you going to keep pretending with that woman?”
Steve’s reply?
“My two favorite girls. I’ll be there soon.”
I wasn’t his wife—I was a placeholder.
I didn’t yell. I planned.
A week later, our school bus rolled toward camp. I paid for everything—so all 22 kids could go. T-shirts read: Team Room 12 – We Did It!
The night before, I packed Steve’s belongings in labeled garbage bags: Denial. Deceit. Delusion. Golf clubs on the porch. Toothbrush on the mat.
Taped to the door:
“Hope you enjoy life with your favorite girls. Don’t forget sunscreen. See you in court. XOXO”
As cheers erupted from the back seat—“Miss El! Is that a zip line?!”—I smiled.
This time, I wasn’t the one being left behind.
