It started with an innocent comment from my toddler — something he said about our nanny that didn’t sit right. At first, I brushed it off. But my instincts wouldn’t let it go.
A month ago, I would’ve told you my life was something out of a well-written rom-com — the kind that ends with a wedding montage, a beach house, and slow dancing in the kitchen.
A happy woman | Source: Pexels
I’m Georgia — 36, mother of three, successful attorney, and married to the perfect man. Or so I thought.
Patrick, my husband, is charming, thoughtful, and gorgeous in that clean-cut, tall, tailored-suit kind of way. He runs a consulting firm, wears expensive cologne that somehow always smells better on him than it does in the bottle, and he used to make me feel like the only woman in the world.
We had everything — everything. Deep intimacy (the kind where you can’t keep your hands off each other), long conversations over wine, silly nicknames, weekends away in Napa, weekly movie dates, and those “just because” flowers that show up at your office when you least expect them.
