It was Micah’s second birthday. I’d been up since dawn — balloons, streamers, cartoon animals, the works. Scarlett slept in until ten, passed me in her silk robe without so much as a “good morning” or a compliment, but I let it go. It was our son’s day, and I desperately wanted peace.
We used to be a team — in love, dreamers — but after marriage everything shifted. Suddenly life was all about status: the car, the house, the image. I worked longer hours, thinking I could buy back the love we once had, but it was never enough.
A week before the party, I suggested Scarlett bake Micah’s cake — meaningful and budget-friendly. She balked but agreed. That afternoon, I saw the cake: “Happy Birthday, Mika.” She’d even misspelled his name!
Then Scarlett lashed out: “At least my ex made real money.” The room froze. I opened my mouth, but she cut me first, bitterly mocking my efforts. My mother-in-law jumped in, exposing Scarlett’s clip-on spending from our account and how her successful ex is now penniless. Even Scarlett’s brother confirmed the cake spelling and the finances.
Humiliated and furious, I stormed out. Scarlett filed for divorce before I even had a chance. He kept the house, the business, and full custody. And that was it—end of our fantasy.