On our 10th anniversary, I was finally ready to let my husband plan something special. I’d always been the one organizing our celebrations—dinners, gifts, every detail. So when he casually said, “I’ve got dinner covered,” I let myself believe it might actually be meaningful this time. That day, I dressed up in the red dress he once loved and waited, excited and nervous, hoping he’d planned something romantic.

Hours passed. No message. No call. Finally, I heard the doorbell—my heart raced. But it was just takeout. For him. Alone. I came downstairs to find him on the couch, watching TV, burrito bowl in hand. “Oh, I forgot you were home,” he chuckled. No comment on my dress. No mention of the occasion. When I asked where my dinner was, he shrugged and said I could order something and join him for the game. Ten years of marriage, and I was invisible.

I left. I needed to feel human again, seen. I ended up at a small Italian place I’d always passed but never entered. “Table for one,” I said. Someone complimented my dress. I had wine, pasta, and tiamisu. I even shared dessert with a kind stranger named Daniel, who made me laugh and asked about my favorite books. He never called after, but that brief moment reminded me what it felt like to be noticed.

The next morning, I laid divorce papers on the table. Eric scoffed—“Over a burrito bowl?” No, not just that. It was about ten years of being overlooked. Of carrying the emotional weight alone. That night, something inside me shifted. And while I didn’t know exactly what came next, I knew this: I’d no longer be the only one remembering, planning, and hoping.