By the time she found out, she could barely move—literally.
If you asked anyone who knew me, they’d probably say I’m the dependable, overworked mother who somehow keeps everything together. My world revolves around my two boys, Miles and Jonah, ages ten and eight. They’re at that funny in-between stage—insisting they’re big kids, yet still crawling into my lap when they’ve had a hard day. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Life is loud and busy: school drop-offs, soccer cleats lost at the worst times, late-night science projects, waffles on Saturdays. Those little rituals keep me grounded.
But I’m more than a mom.
Five years ago, after saving relentlessly, I opened my own massage therapy studio. It became my sanctuary—a place filled with soft lighting, essential oils, warm stones, and a sense of peace I rarely found anywhere else. Helping people feel cared for was more rewarding than I ever imagined. I built a loyal clientele, and the studio became my pride.
And then there was Gavin, my husband of twelve years.
When we met, I was a whirlwind—bright dresses, bold lipstick, hair always done. Gavin loved that version of me. I loved him right back. We traveled, laughed constantly, and made big plans.
But marriage shifts. Children demand everything from you. One day, I woke up and realized I hadn’t worn lipstick in months. I chose comfort over style, practicality over glamour. Gavin said he didn’t mind. Maybe he meant it. Maybe he didn’t.
He was still a present father—attending school events, repairing the clogged sink, remembering my birthday. But over the past year, something subtle started to change. He worked late more often. He drifted through the house with a distracted look, even when sitting at the dinner table. He claimed he was overwhelmed at the law firm.
I wanted to believe him. I tried.
But a quiet part of me—one I tried to ignore—recognized the growing distance.
Then came that Tuesday morning.
A woman glided into the studio exactly at ten, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor. She was stunning—youthful, perfectly styled hair, designer bag, an effortless glow that made people notice her without meaning to.
“Hi, I’m Lydia. I have an appointment,” she said, smiling warmly.
Her voice was pleasant. Too pleasant. Something about her confidence made my stomach twist, though I didn’t understand why.
“Welcome, Lydia. Go ahead and get comfortable,” I said.
A few minutes later, she was lying face down on the massage table while soft music filled the room. I began my usual routine, letting my hands work through the tension in her shoulders.
“Oh, thank God,” she sighed dramatically. “I’ve needed this more than you know.”
“Rough week?” I asked.
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