Seven Days to a Life of My Own

My husband, Daniel Whitmore, loves watching me lose my temper over Natalie. His childhood best friend. Every time I get jealous, he tells me it only means I love him more.

So every anniversary, Natalie gets to play "Mrs. Whitmore" for a few days, and our friends bet on how many hours pass before I snap.

The first year, Natalie puts on my nightgown and curls up in Daniel's arms for a photo. I'm livid — I snatch it right out of her hand. Daniel just laughs, kisses me, and says he always knew I'd never leave him.

The second year, he gives Natalie our bedroom and sends me to the guest room. He only lets me back in after he finds me crying outside the door. Then he whispers that she's leaving after one night.

Last year, Daniel brings Natalie to family dinner. She takes my usual chair, and his parents let themselves call her their daughter-in-law. I stand up to go. He stops me. "They're just teasing. Do you really have to blow this out of proportion?"

This year, they go bigger. Natalie pulls up to our house with a rolling suitcase and digs out the spare key. In front of all our friends, she tilts her head. "Daniel said I can be Mrs. Whitmore for seven days. You won't be mad at me, will you?" Daniel drops an arm around her shoulders and looks straight at me. If she really loves him, she'll get jealous.

Everyone expects the usual show — me sobbing, making a scene, Daniel laughing it off and calling the game done.

But this time, I walk back to our bedroom on my own and pack my bags. At the door, I lay my wedding ring and my house key in his hand.

"Seven days is too short. Tell her she can have my place. Permanently."

Daniel let me walk out of the house without following me.

I could still hear our friends encouraging him behind me.

“Claire's putting on quite a show this year.”

“Don't cave yet, Daniel.”

He laughed. “She won't leave me. Three days, tops. She'll come back without me asking.”

That evening, he opened another wager in the group chat: $30,000 said I wouldn't make it through seventy-two hours.

To make sure I broke first, he gave Natalie access to our smart lock and handed her the spare key I'd always carried.

Natalie wore my slippers in a photo she sent to the chat. The key lay beside her breakfast.

“My first day as Mrs. Whitmore.”

The replies came right away.

“Move into the primary bedroom tonight.”

“If you're the wife now, you should get her nightgown too, right?”

Daniel didn't tell them to stop. He told Natalie where to find it.

“Second shelf in the walk-in closet.”

I read that while unpacking in the little house my parents had left me. It had stood empty for years. The windowsills were dusty, and rust had started forming around the faucets.

At least here, no one was treating being Daniel's wife as a party game.

The first year they played it, I cried in front of everyone when Natalie walked away in my nightgown.

Daniel held me for a long time afterward. He said he'd only wanted to know whether I'd get jealous.

“It won't happen again. This was the only time,” he'd promised.

Now Natalie was rummaging through my closet, trying on outfit after outfit. She started a livestream so our friends could vote on which look made her the best “Mrs. Whitmore.”

She turned in front of the camera in my silk nightgown. “What do we think of this one?”

Daniel, seated next to her, looked up.

“It's not as dull on you.”

Laughing comments flooded the screen.

When someone asked where I was, Natalie immediately looked close to tears.

“Claire doesn't know how to take a joke. It's a challenge, that's all. I'm helping Daniel out. I didn't think she'd get mad enough to leave the house. But she'll be back. We all know that.”

Daniel passed her a tissue. Then a message from him appeared on my phone.

“A marriage needs some excitement. You don't have to blow up over a joke. If you're serious about leaving, come get everything else.”

When I returned, my access code no longer worked.

Natalie opened the door for me, still wearing my nightgown and slippers.

The bed had been remade with her favorite pink sheets. Someone had swept my skincare products into a cardboard box.

Our wedding picture was no longer above the bed. It leaned against the wall in a corner, a box hiding half my face.

Daniel nudged my things toward me.

“Leaving again won't get you anywhere, Claire.”

Natalie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I could stay in the guest room.”

She didn't take a step out of the primary bedroom.

As expected, Daniel caught her arm.

“Mrs. Whitmore belongs in here.”

He turned back to me, amused. I knew the response he was waiting for: me demanding my side of the bed, or crying and asking which of us he loved.

I lifted the box instead.

“Anything else of mine still here?”

His smile went away for the first time.

After watching me for several seconds, he spoke in a colder voice.

“You're making it look convincing this year, Claire. We'll see how long you last.”

I said nothing. I left and pulled the door shut behind me.