Chapter 6: The Life I Never Lived

I rented a small apartment near the hospital, planning to stay there until my surgery.

The place was cramped, but it was mine. I filled the fridge with frozen dinners and takeout, not bothering to unpack anything else.

By the time I finished packing, it was already past midnight.

The city outside was quiet, the only sound the hum of the heater and the distant wail of sirens.

Collapsed on the couch, exhausted, I absentmindedly logged into an old Facebook account I’d once used to help Savannah get more likes.

The login screen felt like a portal to another life. My hands shook as I typed in the password.

Her profile had always been blank to me. She’d said she didn’t like sharing her life.

She’d insisted on privacy, said she hated social media drama. I believed her.

But maybe she forgot to block this account.

For the first time, I saw everything—the real Savannah, the one I’d never known.

Her feed was filled with sweet photos of her and Tyler.

There were photos from every holiday, every birthday, every so-called girls’ night out.

Just six hours ago, she’d posted a family photo—she held the baby, Tyler held her.

They looked so happy, so complete. I stared at the picture, numb.

Caption: Hubby and I have a baby now!

The words burned. I read them over and over, trying to make sense of it.

Below that:

"Great job, daughter! Great job, son-in-law!"

My mother-in-law’s comment was a punch to the gut. They’d all known. I was the only one left out.

Reading my mother-in-law’s comment, my breath caught.

I felt sick, like I might throw up right there on the couch.

So they’d known everything from the start. I was the only fool left in the dark.

I scrolled back, masochistically, unable to look away. Every photo, every comment, was another nail in the coffin.

I saw birthday cakes, anniversary dinners, vacations I’d never heard about. It was all there, in black and white.

Turns out, every night I worked late, Savannah was at home enjoying candlelit dinners Tyler had set up.

I pictured them laughing, clinking glasses, while I drove strangers across town for a few extra bucks.

On my birthday, Savannah claimed morning sickness and went to bed early, refusing even a video call. But at that same time, her feed showed her and Tyler riding a Ferris wheel under the stars.

I remembered sitting alone in our apartment, a cupcake with a single candle melting on the counter.

Even on my parents’ death anniversary, she posted a photo of herself with a hundred long-stem roses.

I’d spent the day at the cemetery, alone. She never even texted.

At the end of her feed, on the eve of our wedding seven years ago, Savannah posted a photo with a bright red background with Tyler.

They stood side by side, smiling like they had the world at their feet.

I laughed.

The sound was broken, half-sob, half-cackle. I couldn’t stop.

Laughed until tears poured down my face.

The tears wouldn’t stop. I wiped them away, but they kept coming.

Seven years of marriage—a lie from the very beginning.

I felt hollow, emptied out, like I’d been living someone else’s life all along.