Chapter 1The Placeholder Husband

My wife, Claire, is the picture of emotional stability. She never checks my phone, never questions where I’ve been. She trusts me completely.

All my friends tell me how lucky I am, what a great wife I have—so easygoing, so in love with me.

Until, by chance, I stumbled upon her secret blog:

“Since it can’t be you, it doesn’t matter who I marry.”

“I see it now. Calmness and passionate love can’t exist in the same heart. With you, I was never this calm.”

“Thank God our daughter looks like me. That way, when the three of us travel, there’s no shadow of anyone else.”

Then I saw the post from our wedding anniversary. The day she took our daughter on an overseas trip with her first love. The day she let our daughter call him “Daddy.”

In the blog, she wrote that it was the only way she could pretend he was her husband.

Someone in the comments called her story tragic. I thought so, too.

So I handed her divorce papers. I told her she could have our daughter.

For the first time in our marriage, she became hysterical, screaming at me, demanding to know what more I could possibly want.

“Who has it better than you? No man has it this easy! Don’t you dare act like you’re the victim here!”

I just looked at her left hand, at the stark, empty space on her ring finger, and my voice was quiet when I replied.

“Someone else can have this bargain. I’m done.”

“I don’t want a woman whose heart belongs to another man.”

* * *

My wife, Claire, has her emotions on lockdown. She never checks my phone, never asks where I’ve been. She trusts me completely.

My friends all say I hit the jackpot. “An easy-going wife who loves you? You’re living the dream, man.”

And I’d smile, a smile that never quite reached my eyes.

Tonight was a prime example. One by one, my friends’ phones buzzed with texts from their wives, summoning them home. Mine remained dark and silent. Mark, the last one left, nudged me with his elbow. “Seriously, Ethan. You have no idea how lucky you are. A wife like Claire… most of us would kill for that kind of peace.”

I just nodded and finished my beer.

After they’d all cleared out, I sat there for a while, draining one last bottle, building up the courage to go home. The house is always dark when I get back, so quiet I can hear the soft, even rhythm of Claire’s breathing from the bedroom.

My foot bumped against the recycling bin, sending a clatter of glass through the silence. I froze, holding my breath, hoping I hadn’t woken her.

A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Claire emerged, shuffling in her slippers, her eyes clouded with sleep. “You’re home,” she said, her voice flat. “Get some sleep. You’ve been drinking, so I’ll go sleep in Maya’s room.”

No annoyance. No anger. Not a ripple of emotion. Any other woman would have been furious—me coming home late, stinking of bourbon. Claire didn’t even raise her voice. It wasn’t the first time. I’ve dated other women, I know the little dramas, the playful arguments. Claire had none of that. Her emotional stability was so absolute, it was almost inhuman.

But there wasn’t a word of concern, either.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, as she walked toward our daughter’s room. The question I wanted to ask, the one I was too afraid to voice, swirled in my throat. It came out as a pathetic, desperate plea.

“Claire? I feel a little sick. Could you… maybe make me some tea?”

Her hand paused on the doorknob. She looked back over her shoulder, her expression as gentle, and as distant, as ever. “Just go to sleep, Ethan. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

The door clicked shut, sealing off whatever else I might have said. The distance between us was more than just a single door. It was an ocean.