For our 10th anniversary, I finally let my husband plan something. I’d always been the one organizing everything—dinners, gifts, details. So when he said, “I’ve got dinner covered,” I dared to hope.

I wore the red dress he once loved and waited, heart racing. Hours passed. No call. Finally, the doorbell rang—just takeout. For him. Alone.

I came downstairs to find him watching TV, burrito bowl in hand. “Oh, I forgot you were home,” he chuckled. No mention of the occasion. No compliment. When I asked where my dinner was, he said I could order something and join him for the game.

Ten years of marriage—and I was invisible.

I left. I ended up at a little Italian place I’d always passed. “Table for one,” I said. Someone complimented my dress. I had wine, pasta, and tiramisu. I shared dessert with a kind stranger named Daniel, who asked about my favorite books. He never called, but for a moment, I felt seen.

The next morning, I laid divorce papers on the table. Eric scoffed—“Over a burrito bowl?” No. Over ten years of being forgotten. That night, I stopped hoping. I started remembering myself.