It was a nightmare wrapped in birthday paper, and every year Drift showed me exactly which woman came first.
On our first shared birthday after the wedding, Drift gave Sable a beautiful gold bracelet—delicate links, tiny heart charm that caught the light. For me? A coffee mug that said “World’s Best Wife” in big cheerful letters.
I laughed it off, told myself it was thoughtful.
The next year, things worsened. Drift booked Sable a full spa retreat—weekend of massages and facials. When I asked about our plans, he squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll celebrate next week when things calm down.”
That celebration? Cold pizza from down the street and a Netflix movie Drift fell asleep during twenty minutes in. I sat in the dark, listening to him snore, wondering when I’d become an afterthought.
Last year was the breaking point, though I didn’t realize it then. Drift rented a private dining room at the nicest restaurant in town. Invited his whole family, decorated with flowers, ordered champagne.
During his toast, he raised his glass. “Here’s to the two queens of my life. I’m the luckiest man alive.”
Then he paused, grinned at Sable, and added, “But Mom, you’ll always be my first lady.”
Everyone laughed like it was the sweetest thing. His dad clapped him on the back; his sister wiped happy tears. I smiled too—what else could I do? But inside, something cracked. A hairline fracture down the middle of my heart.
