Tom always seemed like the guy everyone loved. He had that magnetic energy—always the one bringing cupcakes to the office,
remembering your birthday, making everyone laugh with that booming, infectious chuckle.
Falling in love with him was effortless. Being loved by him, in the beginning, felt like a dream.
He’d show up with my favorite flowers “just because.” Slip sweet notes into my work bag. Friends called him a unicorn.
My sister once asked, half-joking, “Did you find him in a romance novel?” And I believed I’d hit the jackpot.
But the thing about jackpots? They never come without a cost.
Ten years into our marriage, I started realizing that the Tom I lived with wasn’t the same man the world adored.
It wasn’t a dramatic shift—no thunderclap of change. Just a slow erosion,
like waves grinding down stone. The mask slipped,
and what lived underneath it was someone unrecognizable.
