Chapter 3Divorced Three Years Ago

By then, Caleb's company was gaining traction. He'd recruited several talented alumni from our university, and Vivian, a brilliant programmer who had been a few years ahead of him, was his star hire. She had a decorated history of winning software design competitions and a wealth of project experience. Caleb was immensely grateful that she’d left a lucrative job at a tech giant to join his fledgling team.

I stood outside his glass-walled office with the insulated lunchbox, listening in silence as they volleyed terms and concepts I couldn't begin to grasp. The energy between them was electric.

Finally, their intense discussion ended. They’d reached a breakthrough.

"That's it," Caleb said, his eyes shining with an admiration I’d never seen him direct at me. "We'll go with your plan."

A hollow feeling opened in my chest.

As I stood there, frozen, Vivian noticed me and gestured with her chin. "Caleb, your girlfriend's here."

He glanced over, his expression shifting. "She's my wife," he corrected.

"Oh, right. My mistake," she said with an easy laugh. "You just don't meet many guys who get married so young."

I stepped inside, feeling clumsy and out of place as I set down the lunchbox. I was an intruder in their world.

As I turned to leave, I heard Vivian ask, "Your wife doesn't seem like she's in tech. What does she do?"

"She's a teacher." Caleb’s tone was clipped, as if he was reluctant to discuss his personal life at work.

But Vivian was persistent. "I have friends who teach at the university. Maybe they know each other. Is she a high school teacher? Or college?"

"She's still studying for her certification."

"Oh, that explains it," Vivian said, her voice bright and cheerful. "No wonder she has time to bring you lunch. Don't worry, those exams are a breeze these days…"

But what was a "breeze" for someone like Vivian was a hurricane for me. I failed. My old college advisor, hearing I was still unemployed, called with a job opportunity. But it was out of state, and Caleb was firmly against it.

He picked up one of my discarded test-prep books, flipping through the pages. He chuckled, trying to be encouraging. "Carol, this stuff isn't that hard. Just focus a little more next time, and you'll nail it."

I bit my lip, the words catching in my throat. He seemed to have forgotten that I wasn't born with a mind like his. Math problems that others understood after one try took me ten. My only real talent was my persistence—especially when it came to him.

He was the genius, the valedictorian who aced every exam. I was the art student who scraped by at the bottom of the class. I had only gotten into the state college next to his prestigious university by spending countless agonizing hours in the art studio, practicing until my fingers were raw and blistered.

When he said "it isn't that hard," whose standard was he using?

It was painfully obvious.