But the thing about jackpots? They never come without a cost. Over time, I began to notice small cracks in the perfect facade. The man who charmed everyone else wasn’t always the same person behind closed doors. It wasn’t anything dramatic—just little things, like how his patience wore thinner at home or how his generosity seemed reserved for the outside world. At first, I brushed it off, telling myself I was overthinking.

Ten years into our marriage, the disconnect became harder to ignore. The Tom I lived with wasn’t the same man the world adored. He still played the role flawlessly in public—the doting husband, the life of the party—but at home, his warmth could feel performative. The sweet gestures became fewer, replaced by an unspoken expectation that I should be content with the version of him everyone else saw. I started to wonder if I’d ever really known him or if I’d just fallen for the idea of him.

The hardest part was that no one would have believed me if I tried to explain. To everyone else, he was still perfect—the guy who remembered their coffee order or checked in when they were sick. Meanwhile, I was left questioning my own feelings, wondering if I was ungrateful for wanting more than the scraps of affection he doled out when it suited him. Love shouldn’t feel like a performance, but that’s what ours had become.

Now, I see the truth: some people are experts at crafting an image, and Tom was a master. The man who once made me feel like the luckiest woman in the world had slowly become a stranger. And the worst part? I wasn’t sure if he’d changed—or if I’d just finally opened my eyes.