I’ve dated a divorced father of two for five years. This year, we dropped off his kid at his mom’s place for her birthday. I was invited to see her mother and grandmother’s gifts.
The fact that one of the gifts—a pink-cased painting set—was one I had bought and wrapped a week earlier broke my heart. Someone tried to remove the little sticker with “To Mia, from Lily,” which I had written on the side. Poorly.
Still faintly visible was my penmanship. I blinked to avoid a fuss. I didn’t want to ruin a child’s birthday with a gut sensation, but betrayal and confusion made it hard to breathe.
After cake, laughter, and too many pictures, I gently asked my boyfriend, Mark, if he gave his ex-wife the gift to pass off as hers. He looked at me like I had two heads. “What are you talking about?” he laughed like I was joking.
I wasn’t. I described what I saw. A strangely defensive man murmured about “wanting to keep the peace.” Not saying more in front of everyone, but something broke inside.
Driving home, I couldn’t contain myself. Again, I politely asked why he sent my gift to his ex to look like it was from her. He sighed.
Lily is their mother. Mia values nice gifts from her mom. Your work is extensive.
I thought it wouldn’t be a huge deal.”
I gazed out the window. I knew these kids for five years. I attended scientific fairs, soccer games, and ERs.
I was more than a girlfriend. I was steady. At this time, I felt invisible.
I stayed up that night. I kept thinking of birthdays, holidays, weekends. I always retreated for their mom.
I never requested her replacement. But now I wondered if I ever had a place. A few days passed before I mentioned it again.
Now quietly, without fury. “I’m not mad that you wanted her to look good,” I added. “I’m hurt that you made me feel like a background character in my relationship.”
His apology.
Called it terrible. Promised not to repeat. Though I wanted to believe him, skepticism had been instilled.
The next weekend, I saw his ex-wife Carly at the grocery store. Despite our distance, we were civil. She grinned too brightly this time.
“Thanks for the art kit,” she replied, grabbing for cereal. Mia adored it.”
My stomach flipped. “She said I got it?” I requested.
She chuckled. “Mark dropped it off and said it was from me. I saw your handwriting on the tag.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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