Chapter 1
For two decades, I was nothing more than a shadow in my own home–the wife no one noticed, the mother no one talked about. So when I saw that beautiful cake on the kitchen table this morning–on my 45th birthday–my heart skipped a beat. Maybe, just maybe, they finally remembered.
With trembling hands, I picked up the knife and gently sliced into the cake, a little thrill of hope rising in my chest. I was just about to take a bite when my husband’s voice snapped through the air like a whip.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sophia?” Elias barked, storming into the
room.
I froze in place as he stomped over and
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snatched the plate from my hands, like I’d committed some unthinkable crime. “Why are you eating that?”
Confused, I stammered, “I–I thought it was for me.”
He looked at me like I’d completely lost my mind. “That’s for Evelyn. It’s her birthday today. You could’ve at least asked. That’s her favorite cake–the limited–edition one from that place downtown.”
Still holding the knife, I just stood there in shock. “It’s… my birthday too,” I whispered.
Once upon a time, I loved that Evelyn–my so–called best friend–and I shared the same birthday. We used to laugh and blow out candles together. But not anymore. Now, I hated it. Because she got the parties, the attention, the love. And I got forgotten.
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Elias scoffed. “So what? What do you expect? A celebration? You don’t even deserve one.”
His words hit me harder than they should have. I swallowed the lump in my throat and clung to the one promise I still remembered -something he said a long time ago.
“But I’m 45 now,” I said quietly. “Maybe it’s time. Remember what you promised when we got married? That trip to Norway–to see the northern lights?”
He actually laughed. “Norway? And how exactly do you plan to afford that? You think your fragile, always–sick body can handle that kind of cold?”
I balled my hands into fists. The constant migraines, exhaustion, and stomach
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problems–they weren’t random. The doctors said it was all from stress. The kind that comes from holding together a home that acts like you’re not even needed.
“I’ve been sick because no one ever helps me,” I said. “Because I run this house alone, and it’s killing me.”
He crossed his arms. “So now it’s my fault? That you’re weak? You chose this life, Sophia. You could’ve been like Evelyn. She’s out traveling, living life. And you’re here, doing nothing.”
“But you promised,” I said again, voice cracking.
“I don’t give a damn about promises from twenty years ago!” he snapped. “Forget it. And do us both a favor and shut up.”
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He glanced down at the cake, then sneered at me. “You had the first slice? Then go buy a new one.”
He shoved the cake at my chest. It smashed against me, frosting splattering down my blouse and hitting the floor.
“Don’t bother coming home unless you find that exact cake,” he spat before storming out the door.
I stood there, sticky frosting all over me, silence ringing in my ears.
A second later, the sound of little feet running broke the quiet. Julian, my
five–year–old grandson, came racing through the living room. I turned just in time to see him knock over a glass of water.
“Julian! I told you to stop!” I shouted, my
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voice harsher than I meant.
He froze, then burst into tears.
Scarlett rushed in seconds later, her face twisted with irritation. “What the hell is going on in here?”
“He spilled water again! I told him not to-“I tried to explain, pointing to the mess.
“So what?” she snapped. “He’s a child. Clean it up. And don’t scream at my son.”
“I’m tired, Scarlett,” I said, voice raw. “I clean this place top to bottom every day. I’m not your maid. I’m your mother.”
She rolled her eyes. “And you’re jobless, living here without paying a cent. So yeah -you kind of are the maid. Better you than paying for one.”
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Julian clung to her leg, still sniffling, then glared at me. “You’re ugly and weak! I hate you! I want Aunt Evelyn! You’re a monster!”
My chest ached. Even my grandson wanted Evelyn instead of me.Why am I even here?
Scarlett smirked. “See? Even he can’t stand you. Maybe you should be more like her.”
She scooped him up and walked away, leaving me in the middle of that mess–cake, water, and tears all around me.
That night, I perched on the edge of the bed, feeling a pain that ran deeper than any doctor could ever explain. My hands were raw from endless cleaning, and my back ached from the weight of holding together a family that had forgotten I existed long ago.
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No one remembered my birthday. No one cared about what I wanted. The only time I existed was when I failed to meet someone’s expectations.
I was invisible.
And I was done.
I reached for my phone, found the travel agency’s number I’d bookmarked ages ago, and pressed call.
A cheerful voice answered, “Good evening! How can I help you?”
I took a deep breath. For the first time in years, my voice didn’t shake.
“I’d like to book a trip to Norway,” I said. “Just one ticket.”
