Prologue

Astrid

Five Years Ago

I lick the frosting from my lips and a satisfied moan escapes me, barely audible over the noise Bentley and Lilly are making in the living room. “Yup. I think those are my best yet.” Placing each of the cupcakes carefully in the container for the bake sale tomorrow, I admire my handywork, wondering if I’ll ever be able to turn it into something more than a hobby.

It’s not always easy to create something sweet and delicious uninterrupted, especially during the day when the kids are home. But when they find a new movie to fixate on, I use that as my opportunity to experiment in the kitchen, creating the perfect mixtures of flavors and textures, eager to see if I can top what I created last.

And I think these lemon raspberry cupcakes with white chocolate frosting and extra slivers of white chocolate on top are one of my best creations yet .

“Are they watching Moana again?” My husband, Brandon, walks through the front door, surveying the chaos of the house before his eyes land on our kids who are glued to the television.

“Uh huh. It’s the third time today. I’m pretty sure I have the soundtrack memorized by now.”

He drops his bag by the door, kicks off his shoes right beside it, and then heads for the couch, plopping himself down in his usual spot. “Can you grab me a beer, Astrid?”

No “ Please.”

No “ How was your day?”

No kiss hello.

I can’t even remember the last time he bothered.

Sighing, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and then reply, “You can get it yourself.”

His head whips in my direction. “What?”

“I said you can get it yourself, Brandon.”

He eyes me curiously. “Jesus. What crawled up your ass today?”

My jaw tightens as indignation courses through me. “Excuse me?”

He stands from the couch, crossing the living room to meet me on the other side of the island in the kitchen. “I just walked in the door and you already have an attitude.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that me telling my husband who’s a grown ass adult to get his own damn beer is me having an attitude.” I roll my eyes sarcastically. “Forgive me.”

The look on his face is one of uncertainty until he casts his gaze over the mess on the counter I’ve yet to clean up. “So this is why the house is a mess and the kids are being babysat by the tv? You’re baking again?”

Irritation bubbles up inside of me like lava ready to erupt from a volcano. “Is that a problem?” I ask instead, wondering where the conversation will go this time .

It’s usually one of two avenues, and if he decides to go down the path of self-destruction, I’m not going to hold back tonight.

“Well, I mean, I know the women at the elementary school appreciate your baking, but aren’t there more important things you could be doing?”

Yup. Looks like he chose violence .

Slamming the spatula into the bowl and throwing the measuring cups in on top of them, I glare at my husband and say, “You know what? No, Brandon. There aren’t more important things for me to be doing because no matter how much I do, none of it is appreciated by you anyhow.”

He rolls his eyes as he moves to the fridge. “Oh, great. Here we go again…”

I watch him take out a beer, close the fridge, and then turn back to me. “Is it unacceptable for me to have this one passion that makes me happy?” I hold up my index finger. “One thing that is only for me, and every time I get a chance to spend time on that, you demean it?”

His eyes dart to the cupcakes and then back to me, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand how cupcakes make you happy. It’s not like you’re going to be on The Next Greatest Baker or something.”

Tossing my hands up in the air, I raise my voice now. “And that’s the problem! You don’t get me at all!”

He lifts his hands in the air as well. “What do you want from me, Astrid? I swear, you’re like a different person lately. I go to work every day, make money so we can pay our fucking bills, leave our life for months at a time, and when I come home, you’re pissed off at me the second I walk through the door!”

For the past three years, ever since Lilly was born, we’ve done nothing but drift apart. Each deployment should have made the heart grow fonder, but all they’ve done is drive a bigger wedge between us. I’ve never admitted it out loud, but when he’s gone, I feel relieved. I feel like I can do what I want when I want without judgment from him.

Brandon has never been controlling or abusive. But he also has never paid attention to my needs—an issue I didn’t realize was so glaring until after we had kids.

I guess it’s easier when you don’t have other people to care for, when all of your attention can be directed at your spouse. And when you’ve been together as long as we have—since the tender age of seventeen—it’s easy to become complacent.

But lately, all I keep asking myself is ‘is this it?’ Is this how the rest of my life is going to be? Sitting at home, raising our kids and putting my dreams on hold so he can uphold the promise he made to his country? Wondering what version of him I’m going to get when he returns from his next deployment? If our marriage will get better, or just progressively keep getting worse?

I knew what I was signing up for when I married him. I knew this life meant long stretches apart and sacrifices we would both have to make. But when does it stop? When do I get to start living my life and chasing after my dreams?

I love my kids…but being a mom is not enough.

I want more.

I need more.

And I’m tired of being made to feel like desiring more is unrealistic.

Staring at the man I married, the only man I’ve ever been with, my first and only love, I relent to my turmoil.

“I’m not happy, Brandon.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, I think we’ve established that.”

“No. I mean…I’m not happy with us , where we’re at.” His eyes lock onto mine as I muster up the courage to finally say, “I think…I want a divorce.”

Uttering those words feels like letting a bird out of a cage that has been trapped for far too long. They’ve been in the back of my mind, on the tip of my tongue, but I’ve never given them life. Not until tonight.

His mouth falls open just slightly. “What?”

“You heard me,” I reply. “I can’t do this anymore. The fighting, the animosity. I feel like we’re always angry with each other and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of feeling invisible.”

Our eyes drift over to the kids in the living room, oblivious to the shift in their lives that’s happening just in the next room.

“You don’t mean it,” he whispers.

And even though I can physically feel my heart break, I say, “Yes, I do.”