Chapter 1: The Return of Rachel

My husband had a girl who chased after him for five years before we got married, but he fell for me the moment we met. I still remember the way his eyes found me over the rim of his beer, like he already knew my name.

You know how people love to remind you about your competition, even when you think you’ve already crossed the finish line? Derek—my husband—had that shadow trailing him for years. Five whole years, in fact. It became a running joke with our friends, but deep down, I always wondered if the joke was on me. Still, from the very beginning, it was me he wanted. The night we met, the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of us in that crowded Chicago bar. Nothing—not even her—could break his gaze.

Three years later, that girl came back to the States, now wildly successful—an internationally acclaimed photographer, dazzlingly beautiful and impossible to ignore.

She came back to town like a celebrity on a victory lap—her face plastered on billboards between ads for Cubs tickets and car insurance. Even in our sleepy Midwest suburb, everyone was buzzing about Rachel’s homecoming. Rachel, the prodigy. If you’d seen her strutting through O’Hare, camera slung over her shoulder, you’d swear she was about to sign autographs. I even caught her face on a digital billboard during a Target run. That kind of fame doesn’t happen to anyone from your high school yearbook.

And me? I was a full-time mom, clocking in at over 130 pounds, nothing glamorous about it.

Most days, I was knee-deep in Goldfish crumbs and piles of laundry, my only audience a giggling toddler and an always-critical mother-in-law. Sometimes, I’d find myself in front of the bathroom mirror, hands braced on the counter, staring at my softer belly and faded stretch marks, wondering if this was all I’d ever be. If someone told me five years ago I’d be the one hiding from family gatherings, I’d have laughed them out of the room.

At a get-together, someone tossed out a joke at Derek’s expense.

"Rachel is still holding out for you, you know..."

The whole room froze, the kind of awkward hush that follows a joke that cuts too close. There was nervous laughter, but I felt every eye dart between me and Derek. Old friends can’t resist stirring the pot.

He shot back instantly, "Knock it off."

Derek didn’t even blink. His voice was sharp, just enough to make people drop it. But under the table, his fingers tapped restlessly against his glass. He glanced at me, trying to smooth things over, but I saw the shadow pass over his face.

That night, he stood out on the balcony, chain-smoking until sunrise.

I found him around 2 a.m., his silhouette framed by the neighbor’s porch light, smoke curling through the cool night. He hadn’t smoked like that since Maddie was born. Ashes scattered along the railing, his bare feet cold on the concrete. He didn’t crawl back into bed until dawn, and the Marlboro scent clung to the sheets for days.