The Trophy Chapter 1

After I filed for divorce from Evan, I posted a picture in my lingerie on Instagram.

"Husband's not home, all alone and lonely. Looking for a good time. Any takers?"

My feed exploded. While everyone was still reeling, his new girlfriend posted a picture of a sonogram.

"For you, Mommy and Daddy will clear away any obstacles."

Oh. I was the obstacle.

I looked at the flood of "OMG, what happened?!" comments and replied to them all with the same three words.

"He can't get it up."

A 'like' notification popped up instantly. It was from Evan.

* * *

I was the one who asked for the divorce.

Evan and I had been married for three years, and our relationship was always polite, almost formal. His company kept him busy; he was always out early and home late. I had been a stay-at-home wife for those three years, playing the part of the perfect, supportive partner.

Three years, and we still didn't have any kids.

The older relatives, especially his mother, went from being patient and understanding to pushy and annoyed. His mom dragged me to countless specialists. The result was always the same: I was perfectly healthy and capable of getting pregnant.

"Then why hasn't it happened after all these years?!" she'd demand.

One doctor finally sighed. "Pregnancy is a two-person job. You can't put it all on the woman. Maybe you should have the husband come in for a check-up?"

His mom slammed her hand on the table, her face turning to ice. "Impossible! There's nothing wrong with my son!"

Then, the suspicion turned back to me. "Ashley, are you and Evan secretly using birth control?"

I wanted to scream. She'd rather believe I was lying to her than entertain the thought that her precious son might be the problem.

"Mom, we both know how much everyone wants this. Why would we use birth control?"

But the truth was, she was right.

In our three years of marriage, Evan and I had never slept together.

My mind went back to our wedding night. We both had too much to drink. I don't even remember what happened. When I woke up the next morning, Evan was already asleep in the guest room.

And just like that, we silently agreed to sleep in separate rooms for three years.

I tried. I really did. Countless times, I worked up the courage to invite him to bed. But he would always get this grim look on his face, like he was thinking of something deeply unpleasant, and then he'd turn me down.