The day was a blur. My thoughts raced with both doubts and elated feelings
of joy. Jeremy’s declaration of love and adoration left few with dry eyes. As we
stepped onto the dance floor, all of my questions were answered.
“I am his.”
My life had begun.
Caitlyn Whittaker was the answer to all my fears. I would be the perfect wifeand, one day, the perfect mother. It was a dream wedding, and it would be adream life.
Faking Caitlyn
Fifteen
In the first few years of our marriage, I often thought back to the days when
we first met. Our first home was a quaint cottage on the beach. It was my
style of home, not his, but he wanted to make me happy. How sweet and selfless he was only enforced my complete confidence that our love was real and
would be eternal.
When Jeremy and I first discussed being parents, I was relieved he agreed to
no children for the first five years of marriage. I forced my dark memories of the past deep and far down, but I was not foolish enough to think I was ready to nurture another life. Our commitment to each other was my focus.
The whole time, I had been so worried about my past that I didn’t see my present. Looking back, I scolded myself for not realizing what our relationship really was – I had become his trophy. He was mildly interested in my brains, but
not enough to keep me around forever.
Our relationship changed as we grew older.
My appearance made my job as Mrs. Jeremy Whittaker possible. No
promotion for being witty or charming, but a demotion or even a dismissal always loomed for the slightest imperfection. It was as if Jeremy was in denial
that I wouldn’t always be the twenty-three-year-old bride he married.
He made sure to remind me my beauty would never fade as long as our love
was strong enough. This meant as long as I limited my food consumption and never missed a workout, our love would thrive. Jeremy was obsessed with bottling our youth.
Food became my obsession. Jeremy never told me I couldn’t eat pasta, or I
shouldn’t order dessert. However, if I felt defiant and did, he would stare at me until I said I was full. Of course, he polished off his dinner and my leftovers, being sure to tell me how delicious it was.
Instead of feeling bitter, I told myself he was right. I could easily gain weight if I ate like I wanted to. With this acceptance, I spent all my energy on being the perfect size, the perfect wife, and the perfect shell.
This became even more difficult when Jeremy’s job changed again. His
company added more workdays in Los Angeles. This included a generous travel
budget, allowing him to stay in hotels on long days instead of corporate housing.
In the beginning, I joined him for long weekends. I was there to charm the
clients. When Jeremy suggested I not join him one weekend because he had ‘so
much work to get caught up on,’ I was relieved. I didn’t think twice when it became more frequent.
My trips with him became few and far between. I felt guilty that I was secretly pleased by this. The club life and playing the perfect wife in public were exhausting.
One morning, I found Jeremy sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me to make
his breakfast. As usual, he was reading the paper and drinking his third glass of ice water with lemon. I stopped and stared at the photo of Christopher plastered
across the front page.
“Are you not going to fix me breakfast?” Jeremy called, not realizing I was
staring at him.
“The usual?” I quickly answered.
He grunted his approval, and I robotically prepared his avocado toast and protein oatmeal. Why is Christopher Ross on the cover of the newspaper? I wondered.
