This is why I won’t tell them, because I don’t want to ruin their memory of him, because it’s already hard enough for them, because they need to believe he was a good man. And maybe, in some ways, I need to believe it, too. I take a deep breath and finally turn to face them.
It’s showtime.
CHAPTER 1
Mariana
It’s been six months since Andrew died. Six months of playing the grieving widow, mourning her perfect husband—when that couldn’t be further from the truth. I loved Andrew. At least, I thought I did.
We met on a Friday night at a dive bar, the kind with sticky floors, a jukebox that only half-worked, and a bartender who poured heavy. I’d had a few too many drinks and was belting out Whitney Houston’s ‘I wanna dance with somebody’ on the stage. When I stepped down, Andrew walked right over, flashing a cocky smile.
“I hear you’re looking for someone to dance with. I’m here to make your dance dreams come true.”
I guffawed—the line was ridiculous. But there was something about the way he delivered it, with confidence and charm. So I danced with him that night. And the rest was history.
Now that I know who he really was, I wish that I could go back to that night and stay home. At first, he showered me with love. So much attention. He was everything I thought I wanted. Constant gifts and endless compliments always made me feel like the only girl in the world. I was so damn naive. I should’ve known that something was off with him when he kept pushingfor marriage before we’d even been together for a year. I loved him, but I wasn’t ready. I kept holding off.
Eventually, he convinced me—a small courthouse wedding, just my mom and his parents. And that’s when everything changed.
At first, it was little things—wanting me home by six every night. I thought it was sweet. He wanted to have dinner with me, right?
We didn’t live together until after the wedding. I claimed I wanted to be traditional, but the truth was, I liked having my own space. The first night I got home late from work, he was furious. I was confused. I had texted him—told him I was meeting a client after hours. I work in event planning and also make dessert tables for clients. This client could only meet after work, so I stayed.
That was the first night he slapped me.
I was in complete shock. Even now, thinking back, I still don’t understand what I did wrong. I should’ve left. I know I should have. But he was so apologetic. Swore it would never happen again. And I wanted to protect our marriage. I took our vow seriously, for better or worse. Little did I know, the ‘worse’ would drown out the ‘better’.
After that night, he was great…for two months. Then, slowly, his controlling behavior started creeping back in…or maybe he had never changed at all. He became possessive and obsessive. I felt sick if I left work even a minute late, never knowing how he’d react. He checked my phone constantly and accused me of cheating. Later, I found he’d actually been following me, trailing my car to make sure I was where I said I’d be.
And still, I stayed.
I don’t believe in divorce. We had to make it work—no matter the cost. And it did cost me. My confidence, my mental health, and my friends—sometimes, I was sure it would cost me my life.
His control turned to cruelty. His words turned to fists. And there were days I wasn’t sure I’d make it out alive.
Now, six months after his death, I still can’t believe I outlived him.
During our five-year marriage, I endured so much at his hands. I prayed every night for the strength to leave, but it never came. I hate that I was so weak that I clung to the love I once had for him, hoping it would be enough to keep me going.
My body felt battered every day. I thought the bruises, the exhaustion, and the pain were just part of surviving him. But in that sterile hospital room, with the IV lines in my arm and a doctor’s careful voice telling me I had lupus, I realized I had been fighting two battles. One battle was visible; the other was hidden in plain sight.
Andrew was the picture of perfection during my time in the hospital and for a while afterward. He held my hand, whispered promises, and kissed my forehead like he meant it. I let myself believe it. I let myself hope, and that hope became the cruelest lie of all. I thought maybe this was the pivotal moment he needed. Maybe this would change him, make him remember the man he used to be. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Because monsters don’t turn back into men.
Still in bed, I roll over to shut off my alarm, groaning. I’m not ready to get up yet. Mornings can be tough on my body, but I have to get up—I can’t miss this meeting again. My client is planning her daughter’s quinceañera, and we’ve already rescheduled a couple of times because I wasn’t feeling well. I’m excited to help bring her vision to life, but first, I just need my body to cooperate.
Slowly, I push myself out of bed and wrap myself in my favorite thick wool cardigan, slipping my feet into my Taylor’s Version slippers. Feeling cozy, I head to the kitchen and reachfor my cafetera—I literally can’t even begin to think about functioning before my cup of Café Bustelo.
With a piping hot coffee in hand, I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s raining again—shocker. Leaning my forehead against the glass, I close my eyes, letting the soft rhythm of the rain calm me. I take a deep breath, the rich aroma of coffee filling my senses.
My fingers find my wedding ring, and I start to twirl it absentmindedly. I don’t know why I’m still wearing it. Maybe it’s because taking it off feels too final. Maybe because I’m not ready to let go—even if I already have in every way that matters.
I should feel devastated, and I am. Andrew was once someone I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with, but he changed, and that changed me. I’m sad that his alcohol abuse led to his death. I’m sad for his family that they’ll never see or speak to him again. I’m sad that our life together was one big lie, not only to everyone else but also to myself.
I have so much sadness…but I also feel relief. And that relief feels like the deepest betrayal.
I glance at the large clock on my wall—shit—I need to get ready if I’m going to make it to my meeting on time.
Placing my empty mug in the sink, I rush to my room and throw on my ripped jeans, an oversized flannel over a white tank, and my white Converse. Too rushed to fuss with it, I leave my long, wavy chocolate-brown hair down.
