I wish I got paid to be an actress everyday...

Do you know what it’s like to be an actor or an actress?

Neither do I. But I imagine it feels a lot like going to work with my husband every single day of the week.

The cast of Landman makes around $15 million per episode. Kevin Costner and Kelly Reilly reportedly pulled in over $1.2 million each for a single episode of Yellowstone. Jennifer Aniston earned somewhere near $10 million for Murder Mystery 2.

I play my role five days a week, and I don’t come close to any of that kind of paycheck.

I play the good wife—and I do it for free.

Pictured: NOT ME, but how I feel each and every day.

See, I already have my own full-time job. A real one. One that pays my bills and keeps my life moving forward. And somehow, over a year ago, I also became my husband’s employee. His helper. His support system. My second full-time job. No audition. No contract. No exit clause.

If there were awards for pretending, I’d have a shelf full of them. I play the concerned wife. The helpful wife. The “I’ll take care of it” wife. The wife who remembers everything, fixes everything, smooths everything over. The family-oriented wife, now that part is real, just not where he’s concerned.

Honestly, I’m a better actress than Emma Stone. And I never get to clock out.

I’ll tell one story about our weekend—one—and I’ll be damned if I don’t hear him repeat it fifteen more times to different people throughout the week. Same story. Same details. Told like he was there. Like he lived it. Like he participated.

He didn’t.

See, I have my house. He has his.I have my three children. He has his animals.

Our lives barely overlap. We usually only see each other during work hours, where I’m useful, productive, and he's easy to tolerate. He isn't drinking and he has to be God's gift to our community or else.

But this season, I made the mistake of saying yes again. I got roped into coaching basketball. Two of his clients’ kids are on my team, so now he shows up to practices. To Saturday games. He stands there, watching a life he isn’t actually part of.

We drive separately.

Always separately.

If you’ve read my previous posts, you probably already have a bad taste in your mouth about me. You’ve decided I stayed for comfort. For stability. For money. Maybe you’ve labeled me a gold digger and moved on.

But here’s the part no one sees.

We live in a small town. I won’t tell you where. I won’t even tell you the state. Just know it’s Southern... Where family is currency and appearances are everything. Where people notice who sits next to you in church, who shows up at ball games, who stands beside you at community events. People don’t ask questions out loud, but they keep score quietly. A missing spouse becomes a rumor. A woman alone becomes a problem to be solved... or judged.

Here, marriage isn’t about love. It’s about legitimacy.

A man with a business needs a wife. Not because he needs companionship, but because he needs proof. Proof that he’s stable. Trustworthy. Rooted. Someone to soften his edges and make him palatable to clients, lenders, churches, and community leaders. A wife is not a partner here, she’s a credential.

And I fit the role perfectly.

I show up polished. I remember names. I ask about kids. I smile at the right moments. I make him look grounded, respectable, safe. People don’t see the distance because I don’t let them. I carry the weight quietly so the image stays intact.

Because in a town like this, cracks aren’t allowed. If they see weakness, they’ll rewrite your entire story around it.

Appearances keep the questions away. Appearances keep the whispers down. Appearances keep the business flowing.

No one asks why we drive separately. No one notices that we don’t touch. No one counts the days we don’t speak. They just see us standing in the same space and assume that means something.

That’s the lie.

Behind closed doors, there is no partnership. There is no “we.” There’s a carefully maintained illusion that benefits everyone except me.

And the scariest part?

If I stopped performing... if I stopped showing up, smiling, holding it together... the entire narrative would collapse. Not just his, but mine. In this place, women don’t get credit for survival. They get labeled. Dissected. Reduced.

So I keep the mask on.

Because in a small Southern town, appearances aren’t optional. They’re currency. And I’m the one paying the price.

He owns a business. I own a business.

On paper, we look perfect.

What he was missing wasn’t love.

In a small town like ours, appearances aren’t just important, they’re survival.

Everything is watched. Who you marry. Who you sit next to at games. Who shows up together and who doesn’t. People don’t ask questions out loud, but they keep score quietly. A missing spouse becomes a rumor. A woman alone becomes a problem to be solved, or judged.

I show up polished. I remember names. I ask about kids. I smile at the right moments. I make him look grounded, respectable, safe. People don’t see the distance because I don’t let them. I carry the weight quietly so the image stays intact.

Because in a town like this, cracks aren’t allowed. If they see weakness, they’ll rewrite your entire story around it.

Appearances keep the questions away. Appearances keep the whispers down. Appearances keep the business flowing.

No one asks why we drive separately. No one notices that we don’t touch. No one counts the days we don’t speak. They just see us standing in the same space and assume that means something.

That’s the lie.

Behind closed doors, there is no partnership. There is no “we.” There’s a carefully maintained illusion that benefits everyone except me.

And the scariest part?

If I stopped performing, if I stopped showing up, smiling, holding it together... the entire narrative would collapse. Not just his, but mine. In this place, women don’t get credit for survival. They get labeled. Dissected. Reduced.

So I keep the mask on.

Because in a small Southern town, appearances aren’t optional. They’re currency. And I’m the one paying the price.

He will never grow out of his bachelor days. Some people are simply not meant to be husbands. Not because they’re cruel, but because they are fundamentally alone. He doesn’t spend time with his family. He doesn’t nurture relationships. He just needs a few weekend anecdotes he can recycle a hundred times to fill the silence.

We go days without speaking.

Days.

No good mornings. No check-ins. No “how are you holding up?” Just distance so wide it feels intentional. And maybe it is.

At work, I smile. I nod. I support. I play my role flawlessly. I make him look stable. Grounded. Whole.

And then I go home... to my real life. To my children. To the part of me that still exists when no one is watching.

This isn’t a love story. It’s a performance.

And the darkest part?

I’ve gotten so good at acting that sometimes I forget which parts of me are real.