For years, I dreamed of that moment—a positive pregnancy test in my hands.
I couldn’t wait to tell Clay, imagining his joy.
But instead of celebrating, I found a Kinder Surprise at the door.
Inside wasn’t a toy, but a note that shattered my world: “I’m divorcing you.”
I had dreamed of this moment for years. Every second of waiting for the test result felt like a lifetime.
I paced around the bathroom, clutching the stick, my palms damp with sweat.
What if it’s negative again?
What if I’m only imagining symptoms?
But the moment I saw those two lines appear, everything else disappeared.
Tears blurred my vision as joy overwhelmed me. I whispered to myself, “Finally. It’s real.
It’s happening.”
My hands trembled so badly that I almost dropped the test. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at it, letting the realization sink in. After years of trying, after countless heartbreaks—that was my moment.
“Clay is going to be so happy,” I said aloud.
I quickly grabbed my phone, snapped a photo of the test, and sent it to him.
I hesitated before hitting send.
Maybe I should wait to tell him in person? Make it special?
But the excitement was too much to contain.
My message read:
“I have the best news. Call me when you can!”
Hours passed.
No reply. I checked my phone obsessively.
Maybe he’s in a meeting.
By the time the evening came, I called his phone. Nobody answered.
I sent more texts, all unanswered.
I tried to stay calm, convincing myself that he was just busy. Still, the loneliness in our empty house felt unbearable as I went to bed without him.
***
The next morning, I woke from a faint rustling sound at the door. I opened it to find a Kinder Surprise egg.
A smile broke across my face.
He’s making up for last night.
I cracked it open eagerly, expecting a sweet note or small gift. Instead, a single piece of paper unfolded in my hands.
“I’m divorcing you.”
The words stared back at me, stark and cruel. My legs gave way as I sank to the floor.
How could he?
Why now?
***
My MIL, Margaret, had been staying with us for some time. Ever since her health started to decline, Clay insisted she move in. It hadn’t been easy sharing a space with her.
Margaret had a way of making her presence felt in every corner of the house.
That morning, as she shuffled into the kitchen, her slippers scuffing softly against the floor, I barely looked up. I was sitting at the table, clutching the note, my knuckles white with tension.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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