Wedding for one of Jason's bosses

Jason told her on Monday.

Halfway through reheating leftovers, Chloe balanced awkwardly on her hip, Emily trying to coax her into finishing a bottle with one hand while scooping pasta onto a plate with the other.

“Oh—by the way,” Jason said casually, barely looking up from his phone, “we’ve got a wedding to go to this weekend. One of my boss’s weddings. Saturday. Church thing, I think.”

Emily blinked. “This Saturday?”

“Mmhmm,” he murmured, scrolling. “Like, noon-ish. I’ll check.”

“Noon-ish.” She shifted Chloe to the other side. “You’re just now telling me?”

“I just found out,” he said. “It’s not a huge deal. I don’t even think she expects everyone to bring their spouses, but it’d be good for you to be seen. Networking.”

Emily bit the inside of her cheek. “Who’s getting married?”

Jason hesitated. “Some VP. Lydia? Linda? I forget. She’s high up. One of those alpha types. I think her name’s on the fourth floor. Anyway, she invited like… everyone.”

Emily set the plate down harder than necessary.

“I haven’t worn anything that fits in months, Jason.”

“You’ve got dresses, right?”

She didn’t answer at first. Then: “Not ones that fit these.” She gestured down at her chest, heavy and full from nursing, barely contained in the old nursing tank she hadn’t taken off all day. “Or this.” A hand to her still-soft stomach.

Jason glanced up briefly, then smiled, distracted. “You’ll look great. You always do.”

That was it. No offer to help. No mention of childcare. No recognition that the woman he expected to showcase at some corporate wedding was currently leaking milk, still hadn’t slept through the night in half a year, and didn’t even remember what real clothes felt like.

By Thursday she’d gone through her closet twice. By Friday she gave up and bought a dress online, the only one with next-day shipping and a stretchy bust. It was navy, too clingy, and when she tried it on Saturday morning, her nipples poked through so clearly she considered putting bandaids over them. The zipper screamed when she pulled it up. She layered a cardigan over it, then took it off. It looked worse with it.

Jason was already waiting by the door with Chloe’s diaper bag packed—bare minimum involvement met with maximum pride.

“You ready?”

Emily stared at herself in the mirror. Cleavage high, hem tight, belly soft, thighs curvy. She didn’t look like the woman who’d married him. She looked like something new.

“Yeah,” she said, grabbing her clutch. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t know who was getting married. She didn’t care.

She just knew the dress was too tight, her husband was useless—and she was walking into a room full of strangers to smile and pretend she belonged there.