Just A Substitute: The Wife He Failed

At the family dinner, the waiter stumbled, sending a tray of boiling onion soup flying toward the table.

My husband, Marcus, moved instantly.

But not for me.

He threw his body over my cousin Chloe, shielding her completely in his arms.

I was left exposed. The scalding liquid hit my chest and arm, burning my skin instantly.

While I screamed in agony on the floor, Marcus was frantically checking Chloe for scratches, whispering, "Thank God it missed you. You are more important than her. Always."

In the hospital, he handed me a check for fifty thousand dollars.

"It was an instinct," he said, avoiding my eyes. "Don't make a scene."

He didn't notice my hollow expression.

He didn't ask why the doctors were looking at him with pity.

And he certainly didn't know that the shock and trauma had caused me to miscarry our six-week-old baby.

For four years, I had been his perfect doll. I dressed like Chloe, painted like Chloe, and waited for him to love me.

I thought I was his wife.

I didn't realize I was just a placeholder until he sacrificed our child to save his true love from a splash of soup.

When he left to comfort Chloe again, I pulled the IV from my arm.

I placed the signed divorce papers on the bedside table.

Underneath them, I left the medical report confirming the miscarriage of his child.

Then, I vanished.