While her husband exacerbates every wound with scathing comments and demeaning comparisons, Lila is drowning in the turmoil of parenting. She finds an unanticipated strength and surprises Dorian with a birthday present after discovering a treachery that destroys what little of their marriage is left.
I’m 35 years old, and I would have laughed until my sides hurt and tears fell down my cheeks if someone had told me seven years ago that I would be writing this story today.
I firmly believed that I understood Dorian’s heart just as well as I understood mine, and at the time, I believed I knew everything there was to know about marriage, love, and the guy I would spend the rest of my life with.
In actuality, I was incredibly mistaken about everything I believed to be true, and it took me years to understand how oblivious I had been to the man who slept next to me every night.
Dorian had this magnetic charisma that could turn any packed room into a private place where we were the only two of us when I married him at the age of 28.
He had that crooked smile that made my heart skip a beat, and he would lean nonchalantly against doorframes. I had to ask him to stop before I felt really embarrassed because he would tell me jokes that made me snort till my sides hurt.
When we nestled up on the couch with Whiskey, our golden retriever, his tail pounding against the ancient coffee table we’d hauled home from a garage sale, our small apartment felt like a sprawling mansion.
Dorian murmured to me one night, “We’re going to have the most beautiful life together, Lila,” as he ran his fingers through my hair. “Just you, me, and whatever wonderful surprises life decides to bring us.”
Those surprises didn’t last long. First to arrive was Emma, our energetic tornado. She had the energy to continue asking questions long after I was ready to go to bed since she was inquisitive about everything and was never content with a single response.
Four years later, Marcus came along, roaring through boyhood with the unwavering conviction that he was actually a dinosaur locked in the body of a young boy.
Dorian and I were left wandering through the days in a daze after Finn arrived, whose concept of sleep appeared to consist of 20-minute naps interspersed throughout the night.
I was hit with motherhood like a tidal wave. The days melted into unending laundry, fingerprints sticking to everything, and sibling arguments that would stump diplomats.
My coffee turned cold before I could drink it, I had to eat whatever was left in the refrigerator, and dry shampoo became my best friend.
Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of myself in my reflection and momentarily forget myself.
I would say, “Where did you go, Lila?”
To be honest, that was the decade’s most important question. Where had I disappeared to? She felt like a stranger, the woman who used to dress up for meals, laugh too loudly at Dorian’s jokes, and feel beautiful simply because he glanced at her.
And Dorian saw.
Dorian’s voice broke through the commotion one Tuesday morning while Marcus was spreading peanut butter through his hair, Emma was complaining about her missing pink pencil, and I was balancing Finn on my hip.
He nonchalantly said, “You look really tired today, Lila,” while keeping his eyes fixed on his phone.
“Gee, I wonder why,” I replied, laughing without humor. “Maybe because I was up half the night walking the halls with a crying baby?”
His lips quirked into a smirk as he looked up at last.
“Actually, you kind of look like a scarecrow that’s been left in the rain. You’re all… saggy.”
I gasped when the napkin in my palms slipped between my fingers. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged and replied, “You heard me, Lila,” already grabbing his travel coffee mug.
With an incredulous tone, I said, “That’s what you have to say to me right now, Dorian?” “Not ‘thanks for getting the kids fed and washed, Lila,’ not ‘can I help you with anything, Lila,’ but that I look saggy like a rain-soaked scarecrow?”
As though the issue were nothing, Dorian raised his shoulders once more.
“I’m just saying that maybe you could try a little harder to take care of yourself. If we’re standing together, you look so much older and frumpy than me.”
I tightened my chest as I gazed at him. I wanted to hurl my coffee at him right then and there. His white shirt had a brown stain that I wanted to see. The heat of the liquid against his chest was what I wanted him to experience.
My kids needed me as usual.
Marcus began to rage once again, Emma pulled at my arm for assistance, and Finn screamed on my shoulder. Dorian made me want to yell. I wanted to make him see me, to make him understand the suffering of motherhood, the stress that went into every choice I made concerning my kids, and the fatigue that caused me to get migraines around four times a week.
Rather, his comments reverberated like a curse in the kitchen as the door slammed behind him.
I almost dropped the Cheerios when my phone buzzed with a message that afternoon when I was in the cereal aisle with three agitated kids.
In large characters, the statement glared at me.
“I really wish you would dress more like Melinda did when we worked together, Lila. She always looked so good. Those tight dresses, high heels, perfect hair, and flawless makeup… Wow. You always look like you just rolled out of bed. I miss being with a woman who actually tried.”
Dorian’s former girlfriend is Melinda. He didn’t care about the woman he had pledged to.
I had heard him say, “It was just physical, Lila,” once. “There was nothing sustainable about that relationship. Nothing at all.”
I read the message once. But then again. I had to hold onto the grocery cart to prevent myself from collapsing because my hands were shaking so badly. Emma’s tiny voice was full of worry as she pulled at my coat.
She said, “Mommy, why are you crying?” “Did you get hurt?”
How could I tell a seven-year-old that her father had just made a comparison between me and another woman, and that he missed the me that was no longer there?
“It’s nothing, sweetheart,” I responded as I knelt down and used my hand to smooth her hair back. “Mommy’s just… tired.”
She inquired innocently, “Are you being grumpy like Marcus gets when he doesn’t nap?”
When I said, “That’s exactly it,”
I eventually found myself standing by myself in front of the bathroom mirror that night after the tumultuous ritual of bedtime stories, glasses of warm milk, and negotiating for one more snuggle.
The only sound in the house was Finn’s whimpering from the crib.
It was impossible to identify the reflection looking back. Beneath my eyes, I had dark circles that looked like bruises. My garment had dried formula on it, making it stiff. Despite my urgent use of dry shampoo, my hair hung limp.
I said in a whisper to the woman in the mirror, “When did I disappear from my own life?”
The question taunted me as it clung to the steam on the glass. I imagined the ideal Melinda, with her flawless mornings and her leisure time to refine herself. As I handled sleep, dishes, and bills, I imagined Dorian stretched on the couch every night with a beer and takeout nachos—always just one portion—critiquing.
And I remembered the woman I was before—the one who felt alive, loved, and seen.
The response arrived three weeks later.
While taking a shower, Dorian left his laptop open on the dining room table. The screen glowed with a happy ping. As I leaned in, my heart skipped a beat. It was a notification from a dating app.
I whispered to myself, “What the actual heck, Dorian?”
The screen filled with my husband’s dating profile when I clicked on the notification.
The pictures were taken during our honeymoon, years ago, when he had a more sincere grin and a smaller waist. According to his biography, he enjoyed trekking, preparing fine meals, and having meaningful chats in the dark.
I responded, chuckling bitterly, “Hiking?” “The man gets winded walking upstairs.”
I made myself pretend I hadn’t just discovered my husband’s infidelity as he emerged from the shower, humming contentedly.
“Dorian,” I said nonchalantly. “When was the last time you actually cooked a meal?”
He frowned and questioned, “Why?” “What does that matter?”
“No reason,” I answered, trying to hide the raging fire within of me.
I was steadied by rage. In addition to having a phone and access to his actual life, I also had years of frustration that were just begging to be put to use. I knew I was prepared to hit the match at that precise moment.
I thus began to document.
Sneaking pictures of my own husband like some undercover reporter felt almost ridiculous at first. But I felt stronger every time I took a picture using my phone’s camera. He was asleep on the couch when I caught him, beer balanced on his stomach, chip crumbs all over his shirt like confetti at a sympathy party.
He was watching sports highlights when I noticed him absently picking his nose. But the picture of him drooling on his pillow and Whiskey calmly sitting next to him was my favorite.
I came to a realization when I looked at those images arranged in my gallery. I had married a charming man, but this was not him. I had been carrying this man for years, and he was criticizing me for letting go.
I took care of everything for us, even though Dorian paid the bills.
I felt like I was removing a mask when I made changes to his dating page. The carefully constructed tales about hikes and in-depth chats, as well as the honeymoon smiles, were gone. The truth, the beer belly, and the sweatpants went in.
The biography was more scathing than any slight he had ever directed at me. Since Dorian only had one email address and one password for everything, accessing the account was simple.
“Likes beer more than his kids.”
“The couch beats gym every single time.”
“Married for seven years—but the dog is the real man of the house.”
“Will ghost you after three messages when someone easier comes along.”
The profile disappeared and the reports piled up in a matter of days. I felt strong for the first time in months.
Dorian was restless in the days following the disappearance of the profile. I saw him repeatedly frowning at his phone and grumbling to himself.
He moaned one evening when he dropped his phone upon the couch.
“I don’t get it! I can’t even log into that stupid site anymore. Must be a glitch. Figures. The one decent thing I had to distract me from this misery and it just disappears.”
Marcus had inserted his fingers into the tub of vanilla ice cream as I was preparing ice cream sandwiches for the children. Emma was inquiring about the process of producing chocolate sauce.
To keep him from seeing the glimmer of delight in my eyes, I kept my face deliberately neutral.
I responded, “Maybe,” calmly. “You should focus less on distractions and more on what’s right in front of you.”
The double connotation escaped his notice. With a simple shrug, he grabbed the remote.
“Whatever you’re making for the kids, I’ll take two,” he replied.
Then his birthday arrived. For weeks, Dorian had been giving away that he wanted “something special” this year.
I therefore made the decision to provide him just that.
Using his grandmother’s recipes, I prepared his favorite dish, roast duck with a cherry glaze and creamy mashed potatoes. The scent of the house was exquisite.
I arranged the table with flowers and candles, making every little detail ideal. I even got dressed up, applied makeup with care, and after two rounds of conditioner, my hair was shiny and silky. There wouldn’t be any interruptions because the kids were at my sister’s house.
It was all ideal, but not for the reason he believed.
Dorian smiled as soon as he entered.
He added smugly, “Now this is more like it, Lila,” and took off his jacket. Waiting for him, he glanced around at the dinner, the table, and the candles. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to make an effort. This is how a real wife behaves.”
Softly, “I didn’t forget,” I said. “I just needed the right occasion.”
The sharpness in my voice went unnoticed by him. Like a child opening presents, he sat and rubbed his hands together. His eyes glowed when I produced the silver cloche and placed it before him.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Your surprise is ready, honey.”
With a flourish, he raised the lid, anticipating a finely cut duck. Instead, when he saw the manila packet, he froze.
His voice trembled and his smile wavered as he said, “What is this?”
“Happy birthday, Dorian,” I said calmly in response. “Consider this as my gift to the both of us.”
His hands were shaking when he opened it. On the white tablecloth, divorce papers spilled out.
Dorian’s eyes widened and flicked up to mine. “Lila… what the heck is this supposed to mean? Is this a joke? Do you really think this is funny?” he asked.
“It means that you won’t ever mistake my silence for weakness again,” I responded calmly, my voice solid despite my pounding pulse.
“But Lila —”
“But Lila, what? You told me that I looked like a scarecrow. You told me that I don’t try. You said you missed women who made an effort. And you meant every word, didn’t you?”
The color left Dorian’s face. His palms gripped the table’s edge as he stammered.
“I didn’t mean it like that, honey… I really didn’t.”
“Yes, you did,” I answered as I pushed my chair back and pressed my dress’s fabric smooth.
Not because of Dorian, but because I had made the decision to take care of myself, I looked beautiful for the first time in years.
“The truth is, I never stopped trying to be the woman you fell in love with. I just stopped trying for you.”
Dorian exclaimed, “Lila, wait,” as he scurried to stand up, his chair making a loud scraping sound on the floor. “Please. Think of the kids.”
I paused in the doorway, my palm resting on the frame, and whispered, “Dorian, the kids need a mother who respects herself.” “They need a mother who shows them that love doesn’t mean swallowing cruelty. I’ll be damned if Emma grows up to accept insults, and I’ll be disappointed if my sons end up like you.”
I ran into Dorian at a busy intersection six months later. I nearly didn’t identify him at first. His eyes were hollowed out by decisions he couldn’t reverse, his clothes were discolored, and his beard had gone wild.
He raised his head and met my eyes. Slowly, recognition came, then guilt, and last, a glimmer of forlorn hope.
“Lila? Take me back, please.”
I looked him in the eyes for three deliberate seconds. Then, when the light went green, I rolled up my window and put my foot on the throttle.
As the sunset poured pink and orange hues across the sky, I sipped a glass of wine on the porch that evening. The sound of Marcus’s dinosaur roars, Emma’s laughter from the yard, and Finn’s joy all mingled together to create the soundtrack of a life that was once again mine.
Every few minutes, Whiskey’s tail thudded on the boards as he laid at my feet.
I glanced down at my bare feet tapping on the wood, my hair in an untidy bun, and an old T-shirt smeared with paint spots from Emma’s art project. I had never felt more attractive, and I appeared to be a woman who had just gotten out of bed.
The lady who married Dorian believed that in order to be complete, she required his approval. She believed that she had to minimize herself in order to gain affection. But now that I’m a woman, I know better.
I didn’t go away. I’ve been here the entire time, waiting for the proper time to return home.
Accepting assistance was another aspect of returning home. For the first time in a long time, I dropped Emma and Marcus off at daycare the following morning. I needed some alone time, and it was Saturday.
Emma turned to face me and said, “Mommy, will you come get us later?”
“Of course,” I replied, planting a peck on her cheek. “Have fun, baby. And keep an eye on Marcus. We’ll get ice cream when I fetch you.”
The quiet felt odd, but pleasant, as Finn and I made our way back to the car in his stroller.
Even healing.
For the first time, I realized that it truly did take a village. And it wasn’t weakness to give myself that breathing room. It was power. One morning, one step, and one deep breath at a time, it was the start of discovering the woman I once was.
