Fiona: “I write notes to my future students every year in August. I want them to feel welcome before I even know them.”
My wife is already emotionally attached to children she hasn’t met.
And underneath that, comments from his friends, colleagues, total strangers.
is she for real though
your patience is inspiring king
this cannot be a real person
His posts got worse as she read. Or maybe she just started seeing them differently. What had looked like affection now felt like a zoo exhibit.
she sounds exhausting ngl
how does she function as an adult
A post from six months ago made her blood turn to ice.
A picture of a lunch she had packed him, neatly packed with a sticky note on top that said“You are not behind. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
The caption read:Found this in my bag this morning. She packed me a sandwich and a pep talk. Like I’m seven.
She remembered writing that note. That morning, he'd looked tired. She’d wanted to lift him up.
And now it was content. Now it was… this.
The comments beneath made her stomach clench:
at least she's hot right??
someone needs to tell her Santa isn't real
she sounds like she has the IQ of a golden retriever but hey if you're into that
Dean had liked that comment. Dean had fucking liked it.
The humiliation was physical—a hot, crawling thing that started in her stomach and spread outward until her entire body felt like it was burning. Twenty-two thousand strangers had seen her be called stupid. Had agreed with it. Had laughed at her earnest attempts to love someone.
She thought about every dinner party, every work event, every time she'd smiled and tried to fit in while people who'd read these comments looked at her with barely concealed amusement. They'd all known. They'd all been in on the joke. And she'd stood there, desperate to belong, while they watched her perform exactly the kind of naive sweetness they'd come to expect from Dean's silly, little wife.
The comments grew more vicious with each post:
no one is actually this dumb
does she know how to read?
maybe don't let her vote
She kept scrolling, deeper into the archive of her own degradation. Post after post of her most vulnerable moments.
All of it here. All of it for sale.
She sat in the parking lot, staring through the windshield at nothing. This wasn't affectionate teasing. This was cruelty.
And Dean had not only allowed it—he'd cultivated it. Encouraged it. Profited from it.
She thought about all those nights when he'd held her, whispered that he loved her, kissed her forehead like she was precious.
