My husband’s closest friend wagered that I’d break down in tears when they handed me divorce papers

My husband’s best friend bet him I’d cry when they served me divorce papers at Christmas dinner. Women are so predictable, he laughed. I signed immediately, then handed them a wrapped present.

Their faces dropped when they opened it. Do you think she’ll cry when she reads them? His best friend chuckled from the living room. They didn’t realize I was in the hallway holding a tray of drinks.

Feet frozen, breath halted, pulse roaring in my ears. Brandon’s voice followed, light and smug. She’ll crumble.

Women always do. That was five days before Christmas. Before we go deeper, thank you for being here.

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But this story didn’t start there. Not really. The unraveling began long before they wagered on my tears.

It started with laughter. Always laughter. You know I could leave you tomorrow, right? Brandon would joke at dinner parties, eyes twinkling with faux affection as he rubbed my shoulder.

Everyone chuckled. So did I. But inside, something shriveled, tightening like a knot behind my ribs. People didn’t see the weight of those words, not how often they came or how easily.

They didn’t notice how I stopped wearing my red dress after he scoffed. Trying too hard, aren’t we? Or how I started checking his tone before I spoke in public. Praying my sentence didn’t shift into a monologue about my flaws.

He never shouted. Never raised a hand. Brandon was smarter than that.

His words were blades dipped in honey. Don’t embarrass me in front of my boss. You know you’re lucky I’m still here.

I mean come on, what else would you do without me? Each comment arrived with a grin, a chuckle, a clink of his whiskey glass. I’d smile back. I had learned to smile.

At first I defended him to friends. He’s just sarcastic, I told Jenny, my childhood best friend, after she caught one of his remarks at a barbecue. He doesn’t mean it like that.

She didn’t look convinced. He doesn’t have to mean it. You look like you’re disappearing.

Maybe I was. I stopped posting on social media. I started missing book club meetings.

Calls from my sister went unanswered more often than not. My world became smaller, centered around Brandon’s moods, his rhythms, his thresholds. He liked control.

Subtle control. When my mother came to visit he made sure to remind me how, messy, I’d left the kitchen. Loudly.

When I forgot to pick up dry cleaning he’d mutter under his breath. Useless. Just loud enough for me to hear.

Just soft enough to deny. Still I convinced myself this was marriage. Maybe not a fairy tale but stability.

Longevity. At least he didn’t cheat. At least he wasn’t violent.

At least. Then came the gala. We were two glasses of champagne into a company fundraiser when he turned to me, eyes glazed with alcohol and contempt.

You’re just like the rest of them, he muttered under his breath as the seal walked by. Always wanting more. Always clinging.

Needy. My mouth went dry. My face stiffened with the familiar flush of shame.

I didn’t ask what triggered it, I rarely did anymore. When we got home he slammed the door and went straight for the liquor cabinet. I followed him with measured steps, poured him another drink and handed it to him with a smile I had practiced to perfection…