Their friend group had always been tight—four boys and one girl, growing up together. In that circle, Erik and Polly had been the "golden boy and jade girl," the ideal couple. If Polly hadn’t been persuaded to marry a foreigner, I never would have had the chance to marry him.
But when she returned to America, divorced and with a young son, I instantly became the villain, the outsider who had supposedly broken up this “fairy-tale” pair. No one blamed Polly for leaving Erik; instead, they cast me as the intruder.
This group often went out, drinking late into the night. Knowing Erik’s weak stomach, I’d call to remind him to come home, hoping to spare him any trouble. My concern only deepened their dislike; they saw me as a wet blanket and, behind my back, dubbed me “The Tigress.”
Whenever his friends visited our home, they treated me like some glorified housekeeper. Today, yet again, Erik had chosen them over me. Maybe it’s better this way; at least now, I won’t be tempted to soften.
I liked his friend’s post on Instagram, though it quickly disappeared, as if they’d forgotten to block me from seeing it.