For three years, I thought I married a man whose greatest ambition was perfecting his sourdough starter.
Julian was a "freelance data analyst"—or so he said. He drove a rusted 2012 hatchback that groaned every time we went uphill, and our date nights consisted of splitting a large pepperoni pizza and watching reruns of old sitcoms. I loved him for his quiet kindness and the way he never complained about my modest salary as a public school teacher.
Then came the invitation to the Sterling Gala.
The Invitation
It arrived in a thick, cream-colored envelope that looked like it cost more than our couch. "Julian Vane and Guest," it read.
"My old college roommate is hosting a charity thing," Julian said, barely looking up from his toast. "We should go. It'll be fancy. I'll rent a tuxedo."
I spent $200 on a dress—a small fortune for us—hoping I wouldn't look out of place.