How many times can a woman scream "See me!" before she walks away?

For six years, I swallowed every forgotten anniversary, every last-minute gift from his assistant, every time Caden put his ex-wife and daughter first. But watching an eleven-year-old swing my birthday present—the one thing I'd specifically asked for—was the final betrayal.

Now he's scrambling with apology dinners and desperate texts. But the worst part was my coworker Ethan remembers my coffee order, my favorite pen, even my freaking age when my own husband doesn't.

I can't stand being ignored anymore.

———————

(Felicity)

The Dior bag gleamed under the kitchen lights like a beacon of everything wrong with my marriage.

I stood frozen in the doorway. The grocery bags cut into my fingers as I watched my stepdaughter Macy trace her fingers over the embossed leather.

It was the exact shade of powder beige I'd circled in the catalog. The precise gold hardware I'd screenshot and texted to Caden three weeks ago with the message: This is what I want for my birthday. Please don't send Lauren to get something for me this year. I just want this. Nothing else. Just this.

"That's a beautiful purse, Macy," I said, forcing my voice to remain calm and steady.

Caden's head snapped up from the algebra worksheet in front of them. His blue eyes widened with what was clearly panic. "Oh, hey babe. Didn't hear you come in." His voice sounded gravelly and his gaze darted between me and the purse. "We were just—"

"I found it in Dad's closet!" Macy chirped, hugging the bag to her chest. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Dad said it was for the first day of school next month. Isn't he the best?"

The grocery bags slipped from my numb fingers.

"God." Caden jumped up as a jar of my favorite tomato basil sauce hit the ground and shattered across our kitchen floor. "Felicity, are you okay?"

No. The word wouldn't come out, feeling instead stuck in my throat. I stared at the mess the sauce had made.

My birthday was in four days. The purse - my purse, the one thing I'd specifically asked for - was now promised to an eleven-year-old for the first day of school.

"I'm fine." I coughed out. I grabbed paper towels from the counter, tossing towels on the floor to contain the sauce before it spread any further. "Macy, honey, why don't you take your homework upstairs?"

"But we're not done—"

"Now, please." I snapped out. The sharp edge in my voice made both their heads shoot up from where they'd been watching me clean the sauce.

I sighed. My shoulders drooping and I softened my voice. I gave Macy a small smile that should have shouted to my husband how much my heart was breaking. "You can finish after dinner."

Macy gathered her things, clutching the designer purse like a security blanket. "You're not mad about the purse, are you, Felicity? Dad said it was okay..."

"Of course not, sweetheart." The lie burned my throat. "Go on upstairs."

She bounced out, the $2,000 bag swinging from her thin shoulder. A bag I had no doubt would be battered within a week by an eleven-year-old's carelessness.

"Felicity—" Caden started.

I shushed him and once she was out of hearing range I spit out "Don't."

I went back to cleaning the sauce up. "Just... don't."

"Let me explain. She found it when she was looking for her old ballet shoes. She fell in love with it, kept going on about how sophisticated it made her feel, how the other girls would think she was so grown up..." He knelt beside me, reaching for the paper towels. "What was I supposed to say?"

"How about 'That's Felicity's birthday present'?" I jerked away from his touch. "How about 'No, sweetheart, that belongs to someone else'? How about literally anything other than giving away the one gift I have actually asked you for in years!?"

His face went through a series of expressions—guilt, frustration, then that defensive set of his jaw I knew too well. "It's just a purse, Felicity. I'll just get you another one."

"Just a purse?" I stood slowly, sauce-stained paper towels clenched in my fists. "If it was just a purse, then why didn't you just tell her no?"

"You didn't see her face. She was so happy—"

"So, what then ... " The words exploded out of me, years of swallowed frustrations finally breaking free. "So her happiness—God, when did mine stop mattering? When did I—"

"That's not fair—"

"Three anniversaries!" I threw the towels in the trash and slammed the top shut. "Two birthdays! You forget so much that's important to me."

Caden took a step toward me and I stepped back.

"You get that for the last six years you've sent Lauren to pick out my gifts because you can't be bothered. It's always great getting things from my husband that are sent c/o his assistant." I turned away from him. Facing the sink, I started washing the vegetables for dinner. "The one time - the ONE time - I ask for something specific, you give it to your daughter because you can't say 'no' to her?" Fed up, I turned the water off and started pulling things from the fridge for dinner.

"She's just a child—"

"She's a child who needs to learn she can't have everything she wants! Who should know the difference between yes and no." I spun to face him. "But you can't do that, can you? Just like you can't say no when Jessica calls crying. You answer your ex-wife's call at any hour regardless of whether Macy is with us. You don't set boundaries when she texts at midnight. Don't remember your own wife's birthday but somehow never forget school play or dance recital."

"Those are for Macy—"

"Yes! And they are things you SHOULD remember. All I ask is to be remembered TOO!! I'm an afterthought. The person whose gift you have purchased by your assistant. Why do I have to fight to be cared about?"

He stood slowly, and I watched his CEO face slide into place - the one he uses for difficult meetings or recalcitrant employees. "You're being dramatic Felicity. I'll buy you another purse. A better one."

I walked to the other side of the kitchen, putting the island between us. After putting the groceries away, I looked at him and saw he was still standing in the same spot.

"I can't believe you think this is just about a purse?" I scoffed. "It's about you just not caring. You don't seem to get that you gave away something that should have been meant especially for me. You don't even—you've never even bothered to figure out what I actually want."

I slammed the cabinet door and was moving around the kitchen, unable to stop myself at this point. "Then finally I found something that I really wanted. I mean - God! I sent you the details of the gift - Didn't that tell you how much it would mean to me? And you thought so little of it. Of me. That you gave it away."

I felt my head and shoulders just slump. "Caden, don't you understand that it's about being so low on your priority list that a child's whim matters more than your wife's birthday?"

"I told you, she found it and—"

"You don't get it. Or you don't care to get it. Husbands protect their wives' gifts. But you'd rather I be disappointed than deal with her pouting for a couple of minutes."

"That's not what this is—"

"It is. That's exactly what it is." I was defeated. "Why is it okay that I have to sacrifice. That I have to walk in to my own home and see your daughter with my gift. And you didn't even think about how I'd feel. You didn't even think to ask her to hide it."

His silence was answer enough.

I turned away, unable to look at him anymore. I could see my reflection in the kitchen window. I looked haggard. My hair askew. Makeup smudged and running from my tears. My dress from work splattered with sauce. When had I become this woman? The one who accepted crumbs while everyone else got the whole cake?

"I'll get the purse back," he said finally. "I'll tell Macy I made a mistake."

"Don't bother." I looked at him. Really looked at my husband. "You want to traumatize her by taking back a gift from her daddy? You want to make her think it's somehow my issue that she can't have the gift? Better yet, you want to give me something that you gave someone else? What could possibly be worse now?"

"Then what do you want me to do?"

"It doesn't matter anymore. You can't right this boat Caden. All I wanted was for you to think of me first. Just once." I headed for the stairs, exhaustion settling into my bones. Freaking dinner. Why should I cook tonight after all of this?

"Where are you going?"

"Guest room."

"Felicity, come on. You're overreacting—"

I stopped on the third step, looking back at him standing in our mess of a kitchen. "You know what? That's the problem. You think me feeling forgotten is overreacting. I think I've run out of words at this point. I honestly don't know how else to help you understand. And I can't figure out why I have to try so hard. I can't for the life of me figure out that in fifteen minutes of arguing, you haven't even apologized. Not even once."

"I'm sorry Felicity."

"Don't bother. It's not much of an apology at this point. It's merely a response to another time I had to remind you to remember me. Do me a favor Caden. My birthday is in four days. Tell me how old I'll be."

The silence stretched between us. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing. "Of course I know how old you'll be. It's insulting you'd even ask."

"Forty," I said with a sigh. "I'll be forty. Can you make sure you tell Lauren when she goes out to panic-buy whatever she has to pick for my birthday this year ... At the last minute ... Again."

I climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last. I heard him call my name. But I didn't turn back.

There was nothing else to say tonight. I looked around the guest room. Cold and impersonal. I sat on the bed and just let the tears fall. It wasn't about the purse. It had never been about the purse. It was about being invisible in my own marriage, about watching my husband bend over backward for everyone except me.

(Caden)

I sat back in my chair, staring at the screen in my home office but not even seeing the words. I'd been here for hours. It was almost three in the morning when I gave up on sleep and came back downstairs.

At that point, I'd been hoping work would be a distraction. But it wasn't. Not tonight.

Forty. She was turning forty.

God.

I stood there like an idiot, unable to answer the simplest question about my wife. I couldn't even remember her age. Tried to do the math—useless.

My wife. The woman I love. The woman I swore to cherish.

GOD. Forty is a big deal. And I forgot.

Meanwhile, I've got Macy's entire schedule memorized for the next month. I can recite my work calendar like scripture. I can close deals in my sleep, catch every detail, read the room with my eyes closed.

And yet—my wife's milestone birthday completely slipped my mind.

How? When did I become this man? I knew I wasn't exactly detail-oriented in our marriage, but how had it gotten this bad?

My phone lit up.

Jessica: Caden! The bag you got Macy is amazing. She won't stop talking about it! She's planning her whole first day outfit around it.

I stared at the screen, nausea rolling through me.

The Dior bag had been perfect—for once, I'd actually gotten it right. I'd saved the screenshots Felicity had sent. Gone to the boutique myself. Spent an hour making sure it matched the one she wanted. The saleswoman had smiled like I was some kind of hero. "Someone's very lucky," she smiled and said in that sing-song way while carefully wrapping it up.

She told me once she didn't want perfect. Just effort. I'd forgotten that. This time when I got her gift, I felt proud. No last-minute panic. No assistant. Just me, getting it right.

Then Macy found it.

"Daddy, what's this?"

She was digging through my closet, looking for her old ballet shoes.

"Oh my God, I love it!" she said, already unwrapping it.

"That's—" I'd started to say it was Felicity's.

"Is this for Mom? It's amazing." Her face fell. "She always gets the nice things."

That line. She always gets the nice things. Why would she think I would still get a nice thing for her mom? Had I done that since my divorce? Had I? No way. I'd remember that.

"No, sweetheart, it's not your mother's." I'm sure confusion had been written on my face at that point. "You know I don't get your mom gifts anymore, right?"

"Then whose...?" Her eyes went wide. "It's for me?! For my first day of junior high?! I KNEW you'd think of something!"

I should have said no. That was my moment. Should've told her the truth. Should've kept it somewhere safe, anywhere but where Macy could get to it. Buried in the back of my closet was clearly not the spot.

But she looked up at me with those green eyes that kill me every time.

"I've never had anything this beautiful. Sophia has something like it—but not as beautiful. Nothing's this beautiful," the last words merely a whisper in awe as she stroked the leather.

"Try it on," I heard myself say.

Her squeal filled the closet. She strutted around like a runway model, practicing how she'd carry it.

"This is really for me, Daddy?! Like really, really?"

And I caved. Like I always cave.

"Sure, princess. It's for your first day. A new school can be scary, so I thought this could help."

Every word out of my mouth made it worse.

Now here I am. Sitting in a dark office, my wife asleep in the guest room - definitely not speaking to me.

I don't know how to fix this.

I searched the Dior site again. That bag was limited edition. Custom order only. I'd had to plan ahead for once.

I dropped my head to the desk—hard. Pain radiated straight through my skull. I deserved it.

My phone buzzed.

Jessica: BTW, can you handle pickup tomorrow? Brad's being difficult again.

A week ago, I would've said yes. Would've rearranged my whole day to make it work.

Not now.

Me: No. Stick to the custody agreement.

Jessica: WTF, Caden? Seriously? Since when do you say no?

Since my wife looked at me like I was a stranger.

Since I couldn't remember her birthday.

Since she said I put everyone else before her—and she was right.

Me: I'm busy, Jess. You need to handle things on your days. I can't keep dropping everything to pick up the slack.

I shut off my phone and opened my laptop. New email from Lauren. Perfect.

Mr. Barrett—Reminder that Mrs. Barrett's birthday is in four days. Shall I arrange the usual Tiffany selection? Also, the flowers were delivered today.

God. The flowers. I'm sure she burned them the second they arrived. A standing order. Thoughtful, right? Except it wasn't.

I opened a reply.

Me: Cancel all standing orders. I should be handling this myself. Send me everything—every gift, reservation, note you've kept. And anything you know about my wife's preferences. All of it.

Lauren responded instantly.

Everything? Is everything alright? Did I make a mistake?

Me: No. Just send it.

Reckoning.

The file was... embarrassing.

Turns out I've been having my assistant manage my marriage.

• Birthday gifts: always jewelry, always the same two stores

• Anniversary: spa packages or weekend trips... most of which I probably canceled

• Flowers: white roses, monthly, signed "Love, Caden"

• Restaurants: her five favorites, rotated on schedule

• Preferences: Chardonnay, dark chocolate, no surprises

No surprises.

When did I stop trying to surprise her?

I scrolled further.

• Reservation at new French place for next month—her suggestion

• Sent flowers for her promotion

• Disappointed with the tennis bracelet—try something else next time, include a gift receipt

Disappointed. My wife was disappointed and Lauren knew it. She was preparing a backup plan. Because I didn't know her well enough to get it right.

I closed the file. Opened a blank document.

⸻

— What I Know About My Wife —

• Turning 40 on Thursday

• Likes Chardonnay

• Works in HR (title ... God.)

• Perfume in long bottle—check label tomorrow

•

⸻

The cursor blinked.

Six years of marriage, and I couldn't fill a page.

Ping. Another email from Lauren.

Sir, I should mention—Mrs. Barrett's had a difficult quarter. The merger has been stressful. She's mentioned wanting a vacation.

Even my assistant knew she needed a break.

When had I stopped asking?

Regret.

I thought about her in the kitchen. Shoulders slumped. Voice quiet. "I've run out of words, Caden."

She was right. I hadn't even apologized. I'd been too wrapped up in my thoughts — thinking about Macy's happiness — like that made any of this okay.

I picked up my phone. Scrolled through our texts.

Me:

• Running late

• In a meeting

• Order without me

• Lauren will handle it

• Can you pick up my dry cleaning?

Her:

• Love you

• Thinking of you

• Miss you

• Don't forget—dinner with my sister Saturday

I'd forgotten about the dinner.

"God." The word echoed in the empty office.

I opened a browser.

• How to apologize when sorry isn't enough

• Romantic gestures for milestone birthdays

• How to be a better husband

• How to tell your kid no

Useless. Nothing useful for this specific kind of failure.

I pulled up the Dior website again. That perfect, powder beige bag stared back like it knew exactly what it had ruined.

Macy's face lit up when she tried it on. She'd felt so grown up.

But Felicity's face when she saw it on Macy—

That was the look that's going to haunt me.

At work, I don't second-guess my decisions.

At home? I bend. I soften. I let things slide in the name of peace.

Resolve.

I opened a message to Felicity.

Me: I know you don't want to hear from me. But I need you to know I heard you. Every word. And you're right. I love you. I know it's not just about the bag. I'm going to fix this—

Delete.

Me: I'm going to fix this. I know—

Delete.

Me: I'm sorry. She just looked so happy wi—

Delete.

What could I possibly say in a text? I didn't even know what I wanted to say yet.

I had four days until she turned forty.

Four days to figure this out.

Four days to become the husband she deserves instead of the one I've been.

Time to learn who Felicity Barrett really is.

And maybe more importantly—

Time to decide if I'm finally brave enough to disappoint everyone else... just to make her happy.

Starting with my daughter. Because peace isn't worth it if it costs me my wife.