Chapter 1: The Spreadsheet That Broke Me

On the night before our wedding, I stumbled across a spreadsheet on Mason Grant’s computer. It was packed with details about every woman he’d dated. My column read: well-behaved; marriage material. For his first love, he’d written: you’re a bird—you should fly free.

My hands hovered above the keyboard for a moment, the blue light from the monitor stretching strange shadows across our cramped apartment. The words hit me like a cold report—clinical, detached, like a doctor’s diagnosis. No warmth, just a verdict. Seriously? Is that all I am to him? My breath caught. For a second, I felt like I was floating outside my own body, watching someone else’s life unravel. I stared at those words, feeling the chill from the Ohio night pressing in through the window. Right then, I saw my place in Mason’s world: practical, reliable, picked not for love but for convenience.

I remembered Mason once told me—directly, not just in passing—that he’d never marry her. He’d said it to me, almost as if explaining a rule: to be his wife, a woman had to cook three meals a day, support her husband, raise kids, and look after his parents. He couldn’t stand the idea of her living that way.

His words echoed in my head, heavy as Grandma’s old Bible sitting on his mother’s coffee table—rules passed down, expectations set in stone. It wasn’t just marriage he meant. It was a lifetime sentence. I paused, heart pounding. Did he ever care what I wanted, or was I just the one who checked all the boxes?

I didn’t fight or make a scene. The next day, I went back to the local news station. What he didn’t know was, I had a form of my own: a transfer request to become a war correspondent in Africa. The person I truly loved—my real self—was still out there somewhere. I was going to find her, and bring her home.

I walked through the familiar halls of the station, every flickering light, every old coffee stain on the carpet grounding me. My hands shook as I slid the request form across the desk. Still, I kept my chin up. There was a world waiting for me, and I wasn’t about to let anyone—least of all Mason—write the ending to my story.

That morning, as I handed in my transfer application, someone’s voice rang out across the station. “Yeah, I want to go to the Congo!”

The newsroom froze for a heartbeat—keyboards stopped clacking, phones stopped ringing, and every head turned my way. I could feel every pair of eyes on me, my heart pounding so loud I wondered if they could hear it. Still, I stood my ground, steady as the old oak tree in my childhood backyard. I wasn’t about to flinch.

“Addie…” The station manager was speechless for a long moment. “You’re perfect for field reporting—everyone saw that three years ago. But you’re about to get married, you’re still on wedding leave!”

He leaned forward, brow furrowed, like a dad about to launch into a dinner table lecture. His concern was real, and for a second, I almost felt guilty. Almost.

“Going somewhere so dangerous, I mean, will your fiancé even let you do that?”

The question just hung there, thick with judgment. I let the silence stretch, then answered, voice even. “I’m not getting married.”

A ripple of surprise shot through the room—someone dropped a pen, another cleared their throat. The manager’s eyes got wide. “What?”

Under his stunned stare, I repeated it, steady as stone. “I’m not getting married.”

My words cut through the air, strong and final. The old me might’ve stammered, but not today. The newsroom felt different now—like I’d just thrown open a window and let in a blast of cold, honest air. For the first time in years, I felt lighter, like I’d finally set down a burden I’d carried forever.

Yesterday, Mason had gone out to pick up wedding favors and asked me to send him the list from his computer. I opened a file called Wedding Plan, but instead found his dating record. Six women, each with detailed notes on height, looks, and more. Mine was first:

Name: Addison Lane.

Family: No parents, simple background.

Personality: Good wife and mother type, well-behaved, not ambitious.

Notes: Can do housework, can have children.

He’d highlighted: Suitable for marriage.

My heart dropped. I froze for a few seconds, then kept scrolling. The other women had similar notes:

- Spends too much; not considered.

- Messy habits; not considered.

- Has a younger brother; not considered.

I read each line like I was reading a job application, not a history of feelings. It was all so transactional, so cold. My name at the top, like I’d won first prize for being the most manageable. I wanted to laugh, but all I felt was hollow inside. Guess I got the job.

But the last entry was different. Except for the name and photo, it was blank. Only one line in the notes:

You’re a bird—you should fly free.

Her name was Jordan Wells. I remembered, when we finalized the guest list, Mason hesitated about her name—typing and deleting it over and over. I’d asked why, and he said she was traveling the world and probably wouldn’t come back on purpose.

That night, I replayed the memory of Mason’s hand hovering over the keyboard, his jaw tight with indecision. The way he’d shrugged off my question, voice a little too casual. Now it all made sense. A sharp twinge ran through me—jealousy, maybe, or just the sting of always being second best.

So… she was his first love.

The realization settled in my chest like a cinderblock. I traced her name on the screen, wondering what it was about her that made him hesitate, that made him write those words instead of a checklist.

Mason’s Facebook was still logged in on the computer. I found Jordan. Their chat history was wiped clean. But her latest post read:

Ugh! The guy I love is getting married. I’m gonna slash the tires on his wedding car and crash the party!

I scrolled through her photos—sunsets over foreign cities, laughter in crowded bars, her hair wild in the wind. She looked fearless, unapologetic. The kind of woman who never asked permission. The kind Mason would never bring home to his mother.

Mason replied: "Even if you crash it, it won’t change anything. I’m not marrying you."

Jordan: "Ugh, fine! You really found true love this time, huh?"

Mason: "...What are you saying?"

Jordan: "Whatever! With your family, marrying you means marrying your whole clan. I don’t want that! My journey is the stars and the sea!"

Mason: "Yeah, I know. So I married the person they wanted me to marry. I also can’t bear to see you stuck like that."

Couldn’t bear it? I’d never heard that from Mason before.

Those words hit me harder than I expected. He’d never said anything like that to me—not once. I was the safe choice, the one who wouldn’t rock the boat. Did he ever actually see me, or just the part I played in his parents’ perfect little picture?

I met Mason on a blind date. He was young, successful—the youngest attending physician at the top hospital in Toledo, and easy on the eyes. But his parents? Old-school as it gets. They wanted a daughter-in-law who was quiet, polite, could cook, and would take care of everyone.

His mom’s house was straight out of a Midwest family magazine—plastic covers on the couch, floral wallpaper, and shelves of porcelain angels. The first time I visited, she looked me up and down like I was the prize turkey at the county fair. I tried to smile, tried to be what they wanted. That first night, when she brought out a basin and asked me to wash her feet, I hesitated just a second before kneeling down. I told myself it was tradition, respect, but deep down, I knew I was just trying to fit in.

I remember the sting of humiliation, the way Mason looked away, pretending not to notice. But I told myself it was worth it—love meant sacrifice, didn’t it? That’s what I’d always believed. Still, the shame lingered, burning hot and sharp beneath my skin.

We dated for two years. His parents were thrilled with me. He gradually got used to a house that was always spotless, hot soup and fresh food waiting, his shirts ironed and folded... I became the perfect hostess, the perfect girlfriend, the woman every Midwest mom dreams of for her son. I learned to make his favorite chili from scratch, folded his laundry just so, made sure the house always smelled like fresh-baked bread. Sometimes, in the middle of scrubbing the sink, I’d ask myself if this was really what I wanted, or if I was just playing the part.

But he always kept me at arm’s length. Until his birthday this year, when I tried to bake him a cake myself. The oven blew up while preheating. When he rushed to the ER and saw my arm full of glass shards, it was the first time he really lost it—he grabbed my face, panicked, his voice shaking.

“You don’t have to do all this for me… It’s okay not to…”