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.