Not My Type Anymore, Ex Husband

She didn’t blink an eye that night.

Not because she wasn’t tired—she was—but because she couldn’t turn off the ache. Not just in her back or her legs from standing too long, but in her heart. A slow, gnawing pain that crept deeper the more she tried to ignore it.

No one remembered it was her birthday. No card. No hug. No “Mom, we love you.” And still, somehow, she found herself trying to make them happy.

Because Caleb had given her a job to do.

“Since you’re home all day,” he said casually before going to bed, “you can help prep the yard for the dinner party tomorrow. We’re celebrating Mason’s promotion.”

She remembered blinking at him in the hallway, the words still heavy in her throat. But it’s my birthday. Can’t we just—

But she never said it out loud. She just nodded.

Caleb had said it casually, as though it were obvious:

“You’ll get everything ready for Mason’s party. He’s part of this family now, and we have to celebrate his success.”

We had to celebrate.

She had to do everything.

He didn’t say please. He didn’t ask.

Because Caleb never asked. He instructed. Like she was his housekeeper. Like she hadn’t once been anything at all.

So she stayed up cleaning the dusty patio furniture, scrubbing the grill, trimming the overgrown hedges. She even swept the backyard twice. Her feet were blistered. Her palms were raw. Her arms ached. The outdoor heater was rusted and wouldn’t light. She tried everything until it sparked, flaring so suddenly she nearly burnt her sleeve.

She looked around the backyard now. It was perfect.

And still, she knew they’d find something wrong. They always did.

She hadn’t eaten either.

The last meal she had was that half pancake she never managed to swallow.

By morning, she could barely stand straight. But the backyard looked perfect. Twinkling lights overhead. Soft jazz playing through the speakers Caleb bought years ago but never wired until Mason needed them.

She slipped upstairs to shower before the guests arrived. As she walked past the hallway mirror, she saw herself.

Hair tied back with a rubber band. Wrinkles under tired eyes. Fingernails cracked and uneven. There was a time she wore perfume and lipstick. Now she smelled like lemon bleach and dry leaves.

The doorbell rang.

Voices followed. Laughter. Naomi’s high-pitched giggle echoing through the house.

She moved quickly, slipping into something clean—an old blouse and dark skirt—and went back down. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

The backyard was already filling up. Mason stood at the center like a celebrity, laughing with Caleb, a drink in one hand, the other around Naomi’s waist. She looked stunning. Effortlessly flawless. She used to be that young. That sure of herself.

She stayed close to the grill, flipping marinated chicken thighs Caleb had dropped off earlier.

“Don’t burn them this time,” he had warned.

The sun dipped low. Guests chatted, clinked glasses, and complimented the decor. No one acknowledged her.

Until Caleb called from across the yard, “Eloise! Did you pick up the wine like I told you?”

Her heart skipped.

Wine?

“What wine?” she asked, confused.

His face darkened. “The Syrah. I told you last night. You never listen.”

“No,” she said slowly. “You said if I had time, and—”

“Well, clearly, you had nothing but time,” he snapped. “It was the one thing Mason asked for.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

Mason looked over and shrugged. “It’s fine. We’ll drink whatever’s here.”

But Caleb wouldn’t let it go. “You had one job today, Eloise. You think anyone cares how well the grill is cleaned? This was important. But, as usual, you only do what you think matters.”

People glanced at her now. Pity in some faces. Amusement in others.

She stepped back.

“I—I can go now,” she whispered. “To the store.”

“No,” he barked. “Forget it. It’s too late. Just go inside. I’ll handle the rest.”

He turned his back.

Naomi walked past her, arm looped through Mason’s, laughing again. She didn’t even look at her.

Neither did Mason.

She stood there a few more seconds, the tears threatening to fall.

She hovered near the grill again, sweating through her blouse, trying not to break down, but still doing everything.

Then she heard the familiar sound of tiny sneakers slapping against hard tile.

“CJ, slow down!” Naomi called out.

But her six-year-old grandson was already charging toward her with a scowl. His eyes narrowed the moment he saw her.

“Don’t touch the food! Old hag,” he barked.

She smiled gently. “Hi sweetheart. Grandma’s just—”

“You’re not my grandma,” he cut in, loud enough to turn heads.

Some of the guests chuckled awkwardly. Naomi didn’t correct him. She never did anymore.

“CJ, go play, okay?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He stared at the skewers on the plate beside her. “It’s yucky! Grandpa said you always mess it up!”

Then, without warning, he smacked the plate hard with his tiny fist. Meat and onions and skewers flew everywhere, crashing onto the grass and stone.

Gasps.

Someone laughed. Mason.

She froze, her mouth wide open.

Caleb stormed over, his jaw clenched. “Eloise, seriously? You can’t even manage a plate of food without ruining it?”

“I—I didn’t—CJ—he hit—”

“I saw you flinch and drop it,” he snapped. “God, you’re embarrassing.”

“I didn’t drop it, he—”

“Enough.” His voice was cold. Loud. Meant to shame her.

She looked at CJ. He just crossed his arms and stuck out his tongue.

Naomi sauntered over, her tone dripping with irritation. “He’s six, Mom. If you can’t handle him, don’t offer.”

“I didn’t offer. I was—”

“God, can you not ruin things for once?” she muttered. “It’s Mason’s night. Can you try not to make it about you for a change?”

She stood there, surrounded by splattered food, crushed onions, and broken pride.

They all walked off without another word.

She moved to the far end of the yard, trying to clean the mess quickly. Her knees buckled as she bent. Her hands shook.

And all she could think about was who she used to be.

They didn’t know.

None of them really knew who she was before she became Caleb’s wife.

Before she fell in love with his lies.

She was born Eloise McDermott. Daughter of media mogul Michael McDermott. Sole heiress to a global lifestyle empire. She had three properties by age twenty-three. A waiting list of suitors who wanted her name as much as her heart.

But she gave it all up for love. For Caleb.

He had told her once, sitting under a cherry blossom tree in Kyoto, that he hated rich women. That they were cold. Self-absorbed. Hard to control.

“I need someone grounded, Eloise. Not someone who hides behind her money.”

So she gave it all up. Transferred everything to Mabel—her best friend, Naomi’s godmother. A legal handover. Her lawyers protested, but she insisted.

She told her father she didn’t want the legacy. She wanted a home. She wanted Caleb.

And Caleb wanted someone poor enough to stay.

She was never grounded. She was just easier to cage without wings.

Now, she was standing in a backyard she didn’t own, surrounded by people who didn’t respect her, humiliated by a child who didn’t even call her Grandma.

That night, when the guests were gone and the laughter faded, she stayed behind to clean the dishes. Naomi and Mason and CJ had left hours ago. Caleb was upstairs watching football. No one had said thank you. Not even once.

She finished wiping down the counter and finally sat at the edge of the couch.

Alone.

The house felt colder than usual. Quieter too. She leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, unable to stop the tears this time. Her hands trembled as she held her knees to her chest.

Even the wine she forgot was more important than her.

She didn’t want the spotlight. She didn’t want presents. She just wanted to be seen. To be remembered.

To matter.

And she didn’t.

Not to Caleb. Not to Naomi. Not even to Mason, who once used to say, “You’re the most graceful woman I’ve ever met,” back when he first joined the family.

Now she was just the maid again. The woman who failed to get the wine.

The one who ruined Mason’s celebration by existing.

That night, she returned to the guest bedroom.

Not her bedroom. Not anymore. Caleb had started sleeping alone months ago, claiming her snoring kept him up, though she knew it was just another excuse to be done with her.

She couldn’t cry anymore. The tears had dried somewhere in year five of the marriage.

She walked quietly to the master bedroom—he was asleep already—and opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. She pulled out her old phone. The one she hadn’t touched in nearly seven years. The one with numbers she promised she’d never call again.

But now, her hands didn’t shake.

She scrolled slowly, heart thudding louder with each name she passed.

Until she found it.

Mabel Walton

The woman who had everything she once owned.

Everything she gave away in the name of love.

She tapped the screen.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Then it connected.

She answered, voice soft and sleepy. “Hello?”

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just breathed.

Then finally, she spoke.

“…We need to talk.”