On my 30th birthday, I found a jewelry box in my boyfriend’s pocket and thought nine years of waiting were finally over. Instead, he told me I wasn’t “wife material.” The next day, he came home to find me looking like he’d never seen me before.
Simon’s parents threw me a thirtieth birthday dinner at their place, since my family lived across the country. Halfway through, I slipped into the hallway for my lip balm and knocked Simon’s jacket off its hook.
Something small and hard hit the floor.
“Oh my God.”
A velvet jewelry box.
“Oh my God.”
A velvet jewelry box.
I picked it up with both hands, like it might break. Is this what I think it is?
Nine years.
We’d met in college and moved in together because it just made sense. Now we shared everything: bills, holidays, a dog named Pepper who technically belonged to Simon but slept on my side of the bed.
