Center of the Iris

After fifteen years of marriage, my husband finally noticed my nail polish. The shade was 'Midnight Iris.'

It was also the favorite shade of his new assistant, Cheri.

When I confronted him, Brennan called me ridiculous. "Maybe you should get a job," he sneered. "Stop obsessing over meaningless things."

But the deepest cut came from my son, Bird.

"You don't even do anything all day," he said, his words a mirror of his father's. "And Cheri is picking me up today. She's way more fun than you."

Later, he texted, asking me to buy a birthday present for Cheri. My own birthday had been the week before. He hadn't even mentioned it.

He hadn't forgotten. He just didn't care. I had been replaced in my own home, in my own son's heart.

Before the tears could blind me, I sent a text to my lawyer.

"I want to give up custody. Completely. I can't be a mother to a child who doesn't see me."

Chapter 1

I stared at my freshly painted nails, the color a deep, shimmering 'Midnight Iris,' listening to Brennan's voice from the bathroom. He was complimenting the shade.

My hand froze midway to my chin. Brennan never noticed my nail polish before. Not in fifteen years.

The words echoed in my head, keeping me awake all night. Midnight Iris. Midnight Iris. It was a loop of dread.

By dawn, before the first hint of sun touched the curtains, I knew what I had to do. "I want a divorce, Brennan," I said, my voice flat, devoid of the tremor I felt inside.

He used to call all my nail polishes 'pink' or 'red' or 'that weird dark one.' Once, I wore a vibrant coral, and he asked if I'd dipped my fingers in orange juice. He barely noticed my expensive gowns, let alone a specific shade of nail polish.

Only one person in his life had such an intimate knowledge of my beauty routine: Cheri Morris, his new executive assistant. The woman who had, in the past six months, subtly infiltrated every corner of our lives. The woman whose favorite nail polish, I' d overheard Brennan casually mention to a client, was 'Midnight Iris.'

Brennan didn't even stop buttoning his shirt. He just glanced at me, his eyes dismissive. "Are we doing this again, Allison? It's too early for dramatics." He said 'we,' but he wasn't looking at me, not really.

He picked up his briefcase, his back to me. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. It was his way of shutting me down.

I repeated, "I want a divorce, Brennan. This time, I mean it."

He finally turned, a sneer twisting his lips. "Because of a nail polish, Allison? You're being ridiculous. You really have nothing better to do, do you?" His words were ice, but they didn't cut as deep as they once would have.

He continued, "Maybe you should get a job. Find a hobby. Stop obsessing over meaningless things." His suggestion was a deliberate jab, a reminder of the career I'd abandoned for his ambition.