“Do you even know what you’re doing?”
The moment I asked that question, I realized how ridiculous I sounded.
Of course he knew.
He knew exactly what he was doing—maybe more than I had ever imagined.
I shifted my gaze to the girl.
Maybe his indifference had emboldened her. She lifted her head and our eyes met for just a second, but it was enough.
There was no fear there, no shame. Just a flicker of defiance, like she was sizing me up, waiting to see what I’d do next.
“What’s your name?” I asked, my voice cold but quivering slightly, like a guitar string pulled too tight.
Before the words had even finished leaving my mouth, Daniel’s arm shot out like a reflex.
He pulled her behind him, shielding her from my stare like I was some kind of threat.
For the first time, his face showed something.
Not guilt—defensiveness.
“Emma, don’t take this out on her,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “This is on me. I caused it.
I’ll take responsibility.”
He stepped off the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft but echoing thud in the silence of the room.
He opened the closet, rummaged a bit, then pulled out a brand‑new silk dress, the price tag still swinging.
He held it out to her, his voice suddenly gentle, indulgent, like I wasn’t even there.
“Here, put this on,” he murmured.
“Go on home. I’ll come to you soon.”
She nodded timidly, but her eyes gleamed with a hint of triumph as she took the dress.
She turned away, pulling it over her body slowly, as if trying to stretch out the moment.
Daniel zipped the back of her dress himself, his fingers gliding down her back, gentle, intimate.
I stood there watching them, and suddenly I laughed. A dry, sharp laugh, like glass shattering.
Tears threatened to spill, but I didn’t let them.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
I looked away from them, turned around, and walked straight to the balcony.
The window was wide open, and hot city air rushed against my face. The excitement I had felt stepping onto the plane at LAX, the surprise gift I had brought for Daniel—all of it vanished with the wind, as if it had never existed.
I stood gripping the balcony railing, my fingernails scraping against the chipped paint, searching for something solid to hold on to in the storm inside me.
Footsteps echoed behind me.
Daniel was walking her to the door. I heard him saying something softly, gently, the way he used to speak to me in another lifetime.
The front door opened, then shut with a dry thud.
I heard the elevator ding, then silence.
He returned. I could feel him there even without turning around.
He cleared his throat, breaking the stillness.
“Emma, let’s talk,” he said, his voice flat, like he was negotiating a contract.
He leaned back on the sofa and lit a fresh cigarette.
Smoke drifted between us, hazy, blurring his eyes.
When he mentioned her, the corners of his mouth lifted, dreamy, like a boy who had just fallen in love.
“I’m exhausted,” he said, his voice feather‑light. “If I hadn’t met Ashley, I don’t think I would’ve made it this far.”
He kept going, steady, like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times.
“Emma, there hasn’t been love between us for a long time.
Let’s stop this.”
That “Let’s stop this” sounded so casual, like wiping away ten years together—four years dating, six years married.
The same man who once held my hand under the moonlight in a little California town—careful, hesitant—had grown up, changed, become a stranger.
“There are no kids right now,” he said, his tone serious, almost cold.
“You and I—we can both start over.”
He looked at me, eyes unwavering, like he’d made his decision long ago and I was just the last to know.
The cigarette burned out, its red tip fading.
He stood, picked up his car keys. Before stepping out the door, he glanced at me briefly.
“Think it over carefully,” he said quietly, like he was offering me kindness. “I’ll try to make it up to you.”
Act Three
Daniel left, and the sound of the door closing echoed—dry, hollow.
I stood still in the living room for a long, long time, as if my feet were nailed to the cold wooden floor.
I didn’t sit on the sofa.
It felt tainted by the smell of cigarettes, by her presence, by the way Daniel had leaned against it, smiling dreamily when he mentioned Ashley.
This room—there was nothing here that felt like it belonged to me anymore.
I glanced around.
The teddy bear that used to lie at the head of the bed, the nightgown that once hung in the closet, the jar of moisturizer in the bathroom—all of it gone, as if Daniel had carefully erased every trace of me.
Everything had been tidied up so neatly, like I had never existed in his world.
I gripped my phone tightly, my fingers trembling slightly as they touched the screen. The voice recording was still running, capturing every word he’d said, every sound of betrayal.
I turned it off, then raised the phone and took a few photos—the messy bed, the ashtray full of cigarette butts, the silk dress lying crumpled on the floor.
I turned and walked out of the apartment, then slid into the driver’s seat of the rental car.
On the passenger seat, the ultrasound report from the hospital still sat there.
It was supposed to be a surprise for Daniel, a piece of joyful news I’d planned to share.
Just that morning, after my hospital visit back in California, I’d called him multiple times, excited. He didn’t pick up, not once.
I thought he was busy.
Thought maybe work had swept him away.
I took a day off, flew straight from California to New York just to tell him myself, to see the smile on his face when he found out we were going to have a family.
But now, looking at the file folder, I knew he would never see it.
And maybe it didn’t even matter anymore.
Looking back, the signs had been there all along.
When he started coming home less often. When he silenced his phone in the middle of the night. When the business trips stretched longer with no real explanation.
The year we were about to get married, his job suddenly relocated him to another city across the country.
He held me, his voice soft, patient.
“Emma, can you trust me?”
I didn’t.
I never believed in long‑distance love.
But he promised he’d deposit money into our joint account, come home every weekend, FaceTime me so I’d know he was still there. For his career, for our future, I compromised.
Daniel said he was tired.
But what about me?
I was tired, too.
When we were renovating the new house, fighting tooth and nail with the construction crew, he had no idea. When our parents were hospitalized and I was the one rushing back and forth between home and the hospital, he didn’t know.
These past two years, after every failed attempt to conceive, I bore the pressure from both families—the pitiful stares, the probing questions.
He knew nothing.
Love made me shoulder everything, swallowing it all alone.
And yet Daniel said that without Ashley, he wouldn’t have made it.
I laughed.
A dry, bitter laugh echoing inside the silent car.
Turns out I wasn’t as heartbroken as I thought I’d be. Not enough to argue with him, not enough to unleash the anger I might have had.
I couldn’t be bothered anymore.
Act Four
I didn’t go home that night. I booked a hotel room near Midtown, took a shower, then lay on the bed, my mind foggy, as if lost in a thick mist.
The cold white sheets rubbed against my skin, a reminder of the emptiness surrounding me.
In the middle of the night, my phone buzzed.
Daniel was calling.
He must have returned to the apartment and found I wasn’t there.
“Did you go home already?” he asked.
Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I’ll be back this week.
Let’s talk about the divorce. If you have any requests, just say them.
Don’t tell my parents yet.”
The call ended.
I sat there gripping the phone tightly, his coldness sweeping through like a gust of wind, jolting me awake but also leaving me numb.
The next day, I didn’t go back to the apartment. I went straight to the hospital.
The tears I’d held back all night finally fell when I scheduled the procedure.
The surgery was set for the following week.
The child I had longed for, the joy I had planned to share with Daniel, had come at the worst possible time.
As I stepped out of the hospital into the California sun—back home after that disastrous trip—my phone buzzed again.
It was Daniel’s mom.
“Emma, sweetheart, are you home?” her voice was warm and casual, like she had no idea about the crack between me and her son.
“Your dad made chicken soup and fresh biscuits. We’re bringing them over.”
I sat in the car crying silently, uncontrollably, choking on sobs I couldn’t voice.
She kept talking gently, reminding me of little things, like she always did.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and whispered, “Okay. Thank you.”
When I got home to our house in the suburbs, John and Mary Thompson were already busy in the kitchen, the smell of chicken soup filling the space.
I greeted them briefly, then slipped into the bedroom.
How hard could long‑distance love really be?
Daniel’s father had been in the military.
His mother raised him alone for years while he was away.
How did they manage?
I asked myself, but no answer came.
After they left, I curled up on the sofa, my eyes drifting across the room.
Daniel’s words from the night before rang out again, each sentence hitting like a hammer to the chest.
“Emma, it’s not that I changed. It’s that we both did,” he’d said flatly, like it was an undeniable truth.
“You’re so focused on every detail now. It’s suffocating.
But Ashley’s different.
She’s sweet, easygoing. A cupcake makes her happy for half the day.”
I nearly laughed in disbelief, but all that rose up was bitterness.
“Focused on every detail.”
I wouldn’t deny it.
Through four years of college, we lived off my stipend. His father was in the military.
Money was tight.
But love is expensive.
I saved every penny, tried to fulfill all his wants.
After we married, it was Daniel who suggested we use a joint account.
Rent, car payments, gifts—I tracked every cent, thinking it would help us build a better life.
But reality slapped me in the face.
Daniel said he once loved me. But once was all it ever was.
Something had crept in and spoiled our love.
I looked at him once and didn’t argue.
I just asked,
“When did you and Ashley start?”
He pressed his lips together and didn’t answer. But his eyes flashed with irritation, as if I was digging into something that didn’t matter anymore.
He misunderstood.
He thought I was trying to hold on.
That’s why he called at midnight, reminding me we were already on the path to divorce.
I wasn’t heartbroken.
Just bitter, like the taste of cold coffee left in the cup.
Our wedding photo from six years ago still sat in the center of the living room, glaring back at me.
I walked over and took the frame down. A folded piece of paper slipped out, floating gently to the floor.
I bent down to pick it up, but when I saw Daniel’s handwriting, my fingers froze.
I laughed—confused, bitter.
Six years ago, to marry me, he had written every word himself. Promises that burned with sincerity and made me believe he’d love me forever.
During the first two years of our long‑distance marriage, he’d sneak home two, three times a week, pat my head, and smile.
“I can’t rest knowing I’ve got a wife waiting at home,” he’d say.
Later, even after his promotion and packed schedule, he still made it home every Friday, deposited money into our joint account, forwarded credit card statements directly to my email.
I never doubted his love.
But trust is like sand in a glass jar.
Once shattered, you can’t gather it back.
I folded the paper and sat in silence for a long time, like I was burying the past ten years.
The doorbell rang, snapping me back to the present.
I had packed all of Daniel’s belongings into cardboard boxes—everything folded neatly, the same way he’d erased me from his apartment in New York.
I called a moving service and asked the driver to deliver it all to the place where Daniel was staying.
At eight p.m., the delivery was made.
My phone rang.
“Emma, what are you doing?” Daniel’s voice came through sharp and irritated.
“You boxed up all my stuff and sent it here. What’s that supposed to mean?”
He was practically shouting, his voice high and tense, like I was the one in the wrong.
I froze for a second, then hung up without a word.
What could it possibly mean?
He had cheated.
He wanted the divorce.
So the one who had to pack up and leave my life, of course, was him.
Part Two
Saturday noon, the doorbell rang nonstop.
Through the camera screen on my phone, I saw Daniel standing at the door, his face tight with irritation, eyebrows furrowed.
Beside him, Ashley rested her hand on his arm, whispering something, trying to calm him down.
I froze, unable to believe he had the audacity to bring her here, right to my doorstep, to discuss the divorce.
That shamelessness stung even worse than the moment I’d caught them in bed.
He rang the bell a few more times. Finally, my phone lit up.
“Emma, did you change the locks?” Daniel snapped.
“We’re not even divorced yet.
Don’t be unreasonable.”
So all the sweetness from before had been a mask. And now that there was no more love, he didn’t even bother hiding how harsh he could be.
I lay on the spa bed in a small wellness center downtown, holding the phone a bit farther from my ear, as if trying to push his voice out of my world.
“Oh, so you do remember we’re not divorced yet?” I replied, my voice cold and sharp—the first time I had ever spoken to him like that. “And yet you brought the woman you’re seeing to my house.
What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
My best friend, lying on the bed beside me with a face mask on, gave me a thumbs‑up, her eyes glowing with approval.
On the other end of the call, Daniel went silent, clearly at a loss for words.
On the camera feed, I saw him turn off the speaker, his eyes flicking up to meet the door camera like he knew I was watching.
Ashley gently tugged at his sleeve, her face pale.
He raised the phone to his ear again, this time sounding more annoyed.
“Emma, you don’t have to say things like that.
Ashley isn’t—”
I laughed, a dry, mocking sound that rang out in the quiet spa room.
I didn’t bother arguing.
Instead, I told him to meet me at the nearest coffee shop.
My best friend offered to come, but I shook my head.
“It’s okay,” I said, soft but firm. “It’s just a divorce, after all.”
Daniel parked on the side of the road outside the coffee shop.
Ashley didn’t get out. She sat in the passenger seat, leaning close to the window, her eyes scanning the cafe until they landed on me.
Just for a second—but it was enough for me to see the anxiety in her gaze.
Then she looked away, and the window slowly rolled up, as if to hide her from me.
Daniel walked in, his gray dress shirt crisp, his face expressionless.
He sat down across from me and slid the divorce agreement across the wooden table.
“Take a look,” he said evenly.
“If you’re not happy with anything, tell me. I’ll have the lawyer revise it.”
I glanced through the document—dense words, cold tone.
Reason for divorce: irreconcilable differences.
Assets split: fifty–fifty.
I pushed it back toward him and looked straight at the face that had once been so familiar, now no more than a stranger’s.
No trace remained of the man who used to hold my hand and promise forever.
I took a sip of coffee, the bitterness sinking down my throat.
After a long pause, I asked quietly, “Do you remember what you promised me before we got married?”
He answered instantly, without hesitation.
“Emma, I really don’t love you anymore,” he said.
His voice was steady, but his brow tightened, his fingers tapping nervously on the table like he was holding something back.
“Can we just separate peacefully? At least for the sake of ten years together, let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”
Make it harder?
I laughed, shaking my head.
“Daniel, I never made things hard for you,” I said.
“I just want to know—do your words still mean anything?
If not, then surely the paper you wrote still does, doesn’t it?”
He froze, his eyes narrowing.
“What are you getting at?”
I pulled out a copy of the letter that had fallen from our wedding photo frame and slid it in front of him.
Those handwritten lines, bold strokes from six years ago, now looked like an accusation.
“I’m not showing you the original,” I said, my voice calm but firm. “But based on what you wrote, this car, the house, and all our savings—they’re all mine.”
He stared at the paper, his face slowly flushing red, veins pulsing at his temples.
He jumped up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“Emma, do you even hear yourself?” he burst out, his words clipped, tight.
“You and your endless calculations. I’m exhausted by this.”
I should have been hurt.
But I wasn’t.
What I felt was a strange sense of relief.
“Daniel, this isn’t about being calculating,” I said, locking eyes with him.
“This is about being responsible for what you said and what you did.”
He had made that promise. If he betrayed me, he’d walk away with nothing.
And now he called that “calculating.”
He rubbed his forehead, silent for a long while, before muttering,
“Emma, this is exactly why I stopped loving you. Ashley would never act like this.
She knows how to adapt, how to be flexible.”
He stormed out, his footsteps heavy, leaving me sitting there, watching his retreating back through the cafe window.
Laughed until tears streamed down my face.
Adapt and yield.
It’s not that I didn’t know how.
I knew all too well.
And that’s exactly why, when I saw that love and marriage had rotted to the core, I chose to walk away before it was too late.
Six years ago, when Daniel wrote that commitment letter, he never imagined it would turn out to be the bullet aimed at himself.
But now it was pointed directly at him.
He could chase his dazzling love story all he wanted.
I had no objection.
But me? I just asked that he honor what he once promised—the very words that had made me believe our love would last forever.
He had no right to object.
Leaving the cafe, I went to the lawyer’s office, the one my best friend had recommended.
It was a small building with frosted glass doors and a gleaming brass sign, tucked between a pharmacy and a deli on a quiet American main street.
I didn’t have much evidence of Daniel’s affair—just a voice recording, a few photos, and that old written promise—but I didn’t want to drag it out with him.
I just wanted to end it clean and final, the way he had ended our ten years.
In the office, sunlight streamed through the window, lighting up the glossy wooden desk.
The lawyer, young and about my age, sat across from me, his thin‑rimmed glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose as he listened to the recording.
I played it.
Daniel’s voice came through—dry, devoid of guilt—as he talked about the first time he met Ashley, how she drew him in, how he no longer had to pretend to love me.
Every word felt like a knife—not because it hurt, but because it confirmed that the love I had once believed in had died long ago.
The lawyer frowned, fingers tapping lightly on the desk, his eyes focused, but he said nothing—just listened.
I slid the written commitment toward him, a copy of the page that had fallen from our wedding photo frame.
He picked it up and skimmed it.
His brows gradually relaxed, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint smile.
“Let’s give this a try,” he said with quiet confidence. “The case isn’t too complicated.
The other party already admitted to infidelity and even talked about compensation.
This pre‑marriage agreement is essentially a loyalty contract. And he put his own fingerprint here, didn’t he?”
I nodded.
“Yes. He pressed it himself on our wedding day.”
My voice was steady, but the memories tore open, flooding back in waves I couldn’t stop.
Six years ago, Daniel and I had just graduated, and our love burned so brightly.
We just wanted to be together forever.
We sat down with both families to talk about the wedding.
Everyone wanted a grand celebration, but I declined.
“We don’t need that,” I told my parents, my voice soft but firm.
“Just something simple and warm. We’ll cover the costs ourselves.”
I just wanted both families to be happy without financial pressure.
I trusted Daniel, believed our future would be radiant, that no one would ever change.
I never touched a cent of the wedding fund.
Quietly, I returned all of it to John and Mary Thompson, Daniel’s parents.
He was moved, his eyes glowing as he held my hand and whispered that I was the most incredible woman he’d ever known.
On our wedding day, in front of all our guests, he solemnly wrote that commitment.
His pen glided across the paper, the handwriting bold and confident.
He said that maybe he couldn’t give me a wealthy life yet, but he would try. He said his future would always include me.
He said everything he had would also be mine.
Part Three
When I got home that evening, John and Mary Thompson were already waiting at the door.
They rarely visited on weekend evenings, and my heart sank with a sudden uneasy feeling.
I quickened my pace, trying to force a smile.
“Mom, Dad, what brings you here?
Have you been waiting long?”
I hurried to take the bags from their hands, the scent of homemade cookies drifting from the paper bag, mingling with the smell of yogurt and fresh fruit.
I opened the door.
The passcode had already been changed.
Mary Thompson looked at me, hesitation in her eyes, her lips pressed tightly together like she was weighing something.
It took her a while before she finally spoke, her voice soft but sharp.
“Emma, are you hiding something from us?”
I froze, my hand tightening around the bag handle.
Even though Daniel and I were on the verge of divorce, we had agreed not to tell either side of the family until everything was settled.
“Of course not,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light.
John and Mary Thompson had always treated me like their own daughter.
I had never truly learned how to cook, so every few days they’d call to check in, sometimes mailing boxes of homemade pastries.
My fridge was always stocked with fruit and yogurt they brought.
Before, every call with them had been full of laughter. I’d joke to make them smile, tell silly little stories.
But today, sitting on the sofa, facing their searching gazes, I wanted nothing more than to run.
“Marriage isn’t just between two people,” Mary said quietly. “Neither is divorce.”
Then she spoke up, her tone gentle but firm.
“Did Daniel and you get into a fight?
A pregnancy is something important.
Why didn’t you tell us?”
Her words landed like a blade, making my heart skip a beat and my response lag a second.
I panicked, about to deny it.
“I didn’t—”
But she cut me off.
Her eyes were still kind, but they left no room to dodge.
“This morning, I happened to run into Dr. Wilder,” she said.
“She told me. You’ve been seeing her for your prenatal visits, haven’t you?”
From the moment I found out I was pregnant to the moment I decided to terminate, only a day had passed.
I had chosen a different hospital for the surgery, in a different part of town, thinking I could keep it all hidden.
But I forgot—pregnancy isn’t something you can hide forever.
Dr.
Wilder, my ultrasound doctor, was a longtime friend of Mary’s.
I lowered my head, my eyes drifting over the carpet, and said flatly, “There’s no reason.
I just don’t want to keep it.”
The words were light, but they weighed on my chest like stone.
At ten p.m., I sat cross‑legged on the sofa. John and Mary’s eyes were locked on me, their expressions dark.
They had driven over the moment they found out I was pregnant. The joy that should have been radiant was now clouded by something heavy.
The air in the living room was suffocating, like even the sounds had been swallowed by the silence.
They wanted to comfort me, but didn’t know how.
So they just sat there, saying nothing.
Maybe they had already guessed something was wrong between me and Daniel, but didn’t dare ask.
Mary finally broke the silence, her voice soft.
“Emma, did Daniel argue with you?
I’ll call him right now.”
She dialed, her finger trembling slightly, her eyes determined.
I didn’t stop her.
I just sat there, gripping the edge of my sleeve, waiting.
The phone rang for a long, long time.
Then a young female voice answered on the other end.
Mary flinched.
The phone slipped from her hand and hit the carpet with a heavy thud.
The screen stayed lit, showing the call was still connected.
I glanced at it, the corner of my mouth curling into a bitter, mocking smile.
Well done, I thought.
I didn’t even need to explain anymore.
Daniel, like me, had memorized all our family numbers. No contact name needed.
Ashley’s voice rang out, clear and unmistakable, just like those red heels that day—bold, glaring, undeniable.
John shot up from the sofa and stormed out of the room, his shoulders tense like he was holding back anger.
Mary scrambled to pick up the phone, then looked at me, her eyes full of shock, before chasing after him.
I was left sitting in the living room alone with my own parents, their expressions growing darker by the second, as if the truth had just shattered open in front of them.
I shrugged, suddenly feeling strangely relieved, as though an invisible weight had been lifted.
“The surgery is scheduled for next week.
Wednesday,” I said quietly.
John and Mary Thompson flew out that very night to the city where Daniel was working, as if their anger and disappointment had pushed them past the point of hesitation.
I pictured them standing in front of him, voices sharp, eyes heavy, probably giving him the scolding of a lifetime.
Proof of that came at four a.m., when my phone rang.
“Emma, now I see what kind of person you really are,” Daniel’s voice exploded through the speaker, full of rage. “All this time you couldn’t get pregnant, and now, right when we’re getting divorced, suddenly you are?
What a coincidence, huh?
Are you doing this just to get more money? This is unbelievable.”
He was nearly shouting, every word like a stone hurled at me.
“Let me make this clear. I will divorce you.”
I leaned back on the sofa.
My breathing slowed, and my finger slid over the speaker button.
His voice vanished, swallowed by silence.
I ended the call and let the phone fall softly onto my lap as the screen faded to black.
He was right about one thing: after all this time, I had never gotten pregnant.
And now, of all moments…
I placed a hand on my stomach, the ache spreading—not because of Daniel’s accusations, but because of the child I never had the chance to tell him about the way I had once imagined.
I wasn’t heartbroken over his betrayal anymore.
Love, it turns out, is that fragile.
But this child—the joy I had once been so eager to share—had now become a deep, unhealed wound.
Turning my head, I saw my parents standing in the hallway outside my bedroom, their faces filled with pain, as if they had heard everything.
My mother’s shoulders trembled.
My father stood frozen, gripping the doorframe.
They couldn’t sleep, and neither could I.
Mom came over and gently sat beside me, her warm hand soothing my shoulder, her voice soft but choked.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Next week, we’ll go to the hospital with you.
And when you’re feeling better, we’ll take you on a trip. You’ve always wanted to travel, haven’t you?”
I nodded, my eyes burning, tears rolling down silently.
In the end, only my parents had stayed by my side, unchanging, like a warm light in the middle of a storm.
My phone rang again.
It was Mary Thompson.
Her voice was hoarse, broken up by quiet sobs.
“I’m so sorry, Emma.
Just this once… could you forgive him?”
On the other end, I could hear John Thompson yelling, scolding Daniel.
But I only smiled—bitter, faint.
Betrayal happens once, or over and over.
Daniel didn’t need my forgiveness.
What he wanted was love—not from me, but from Ashley.
From what he called innocence and purity.
The next morning, the quiet living room suddenly felt crowded.
Daniel came back, brought there by John and Mary.
I stepped out of the bedroom just in time to lock eyes with him.
There was no warmth in his gaze anymore, only distance, cold like the eyes of a stranger.
He stood by the entrance, his shoulders stiff as he faced his own parents.
John pointed at him, fuming.
“What were you thinking, Daniel? Do you have to disappoint us this much?”
Mary, her eyes glistening with tears, hit him lightly on the shoulder again and again, her hands shaking.
“Say something, Daniel.”
But when Ashley’s name came up, his eyes flickered, his lips tightened, and he finally said, “Ashley isn’t the one who ruined this. Mom, please be careful how you talk about her.”
I sat on the sofa, arms folded, watching the scene like a sad little play.
I had never imagined ten years together would end in such unfamiliarity.
I spoke up, my voice flat, slicing through the tension.
“Mom, Dad, you should go home,” I said to my own parents.
“I’ll handle the divorce directly with Daniel’s lawyer.”
I raised a hand, stopping John and Mary’s anger, my eyes steady even as exhaustion hollowed me out.
After all that yelling, I was tired.
They should be, too.
I stood up and walked straight into the kitchen.
The warm scent of pumpkin soup filled the air, pulling me back to happier days.
My parents, after a long night, seemed calmer.
They acted like nothing had happened, bustling around the kitchen as usual.
Dad gently lifted the lid of the pot, steam rising, then turned to me with a soft smile.
“Hey, I made you pumpkin soup and toasted bread—your favorite,” he said.
Act Nine
There’s nothing noble about infidelity in marriage.
I didn’t make a scene. I didn’t let the whole world know.
That was the last bit of respect I chose to give the ten years I’d had with Daniel.
But he clearly didn’t value it.
He denied the commitment letter he had written himself.
The negotiation between him and my lawyer became strained, difficult.
I had just finished the surgery.
My body was drained, my mind blank, as I lay in a hospital bed under harsh fluorescent lights.
My phone buzzed. It was my lawyer calling, his voice steady but clearly frustrated.
“He doesn’t want to settle, Emma,” he said.
“He insists the commitment letter isn’t legally significant.”
I clenched the phone.
My breathing slowed.
“If he won’t settle, then take it to court,” I said, my voice cold and firm. “I’m not backing down. He’ll be held to what he promised.”
I hung up and leaned back, the bright hospital lights glaring down at me as if trying to expose every wound I’d tried to hide.
But when I looked toward the doorway, I froze.
Ashley was standing at the door of my hospital room.
Her eyes were full of smug confidence, the corner of her lips curled in a taunting smirk, like she was quietly declaring victory.
My chest tightened, my brows furrowing.
I couldn’t understand why she was here, why the woman my husband had chosen kept needing to show up in front of the wife to make her presence known.
I remembered how, right after Daniel had been brought home by John and Mary, Ashley had sent me a friend request on Instagram.
“Daniel said he only truly felt love when he was with me,” she’d messaged.
“He’s been tired of you for a long time.”
I didn’t need her to tell me that.
I already knew.
I chose divorce not because she pushed me to it, but because I no longer wanted to hold on to a marriage that had long since rotted.
And yet there she was, standing in the hospital doorway, as if needing to confirm that she had won.
My parents, sitting beside my bed, sensed something was off.
My mom turned her head, puzzled.
“Who’s that? Do you know her?”
I looked at Ashley, then shook my head.
“Not really,” I said, my voice low but clear enough to carry through the room.
“Just the woman Daniel’s been seeing.”
The words were calm, but they cut clean through the quiet.
There were a few other families in the shared hospital room, and all eyes turned toward the door, landing on Ashley with open disapproval, like she was an unwelcome presence.
The family of the patient in the bed nearest the door stood up, walked over quickly, and pushed the door shut.
Bang.
Ashley vanished behind it.
That’s the thing: when you’re the other woman in someone else’s marriage, you don’t get applause. Most of what you meet are frowns and judgment.
Act Ten
When I was discharged from the hospital, the moment I pushed open the door to my parents’ house, my best friend rushed over, eyes glowing, holding a steaming cup of coffee.
“Good news,” she shouted excitedly.
“Your court date with Daniel might be moved up.”
She flopped down onto the sofa, her voice firm.
“I checked with the lawyer.
You’re going to win for sure. But have you gone over the joint assets carefully?”
The house, the car, everything we’d bought after getting married was fully documented. Daniel’s salary was transferred regularly into the joint account, and he sent me his pay stubs like clockwork—a habit he kept flawlessly intact.
Even while seeing Ashley, he’d left no loose ends on paper.
If he hadn’t been such a good actor, how could I not have noticed a thing all this time?
My best friend widened her eyes and pointed at me in warning.
“What about all the stuff he bought for her?
You need to claim that too.”
I shrugged, my voice calm.
“Those gifts weren’t worth much anyway.
But what needs to be reclaimed, I’ll reclaim.”
Fortunately, Ashley Miller—after connecting with me on Instagram—had a habit of showing off. Every gift Daniel gave her—a necklace, a handbag, a silk dress—she posted proudly with smug little captions.
I screenshotted everything and sent it to my lawyer.
He replied with just one line:
“Got it.
Don’t worry.”
While waiting for the hearing, John and Mary Thompson visited multiple times.
I thought they would try to convince me to back down, settle the divorce quietly, avoid escalation.
But no. They quietly rang the bell and waited for me to open the door, even though they still remembered the passcode.
They brought pastries and yogurt, just like the old days.
Their eyes were full of sorrow, but they never said a word about Daniel.
Every time they came, I felt a little lighter, reminded that some people still genuinely cared.
On the day of the hearing, the courtroom air felt thick, the white ceiling lights casting harsh shadows on Daniel’s tense face.
He didn’t deny the affair.
But he still turned around to look at Ashley, sitting in the back row, his eyes full of deep emotion, like some self‑appointed warrior for love.
John and Mary, seated not far away, began to show their disappointment more openly.
John, a soldier who had lived by principle all his life, gripped the armrest tightly, unable to believe his son had become this person.
Daniel stood at the podium, his voice cold.
“Yes, I wrote that agreement on our wedding day,” he said.
“But it has no legal effect. I don’t acknowledge it.”
I looked at him—the man who used to mean the world to me, now as unfamiliar as a stranger.
Then I pulled up the wedding video carefully stored on my phone.
The big screen in the courtroom showed a young, glowing Daniel holding a microphone and reading every word of the agreement in front of the wedding hall.
“I allow everyone here to hold me accountable,” his voice rang out. “In this life, I’ll love only you.
If I ever betray you, everything—money, cars, house—will be yours.”
No one had forced him to say it.
No one had forced him to write it.
The courtroom fell silent, with only John Thompson’s long sigh breaking the air.
My lawyer stood up and explained that the agreement, with his signature and witnesses present, was legally valid.
The house and car loans had been paid off two years earlier.
Most of the savings in the joint account had been managed by me.
The court ruled in my favor.
Daniel was furious, his face flushed, ready to appeal.
But John and Mary immediately stood up.
“That’s enough,” John said, his voice shaking. “Don’t disappoint your parents any further.”
Daniel looked at them, then scoffed.
He turned back to me, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Emma, do you even realize how much you care about money?” he said.
“To you, there’s nothing but houses, cars, savings. I honestly can’t recognize you anymore.”
Funny.
I had the house, the car, the savings—all things he had promised me.
Why would I still want a love that had already crumbled and left nothing but pain?
I looked at him and said nothing.
He took Ashley’s hand and walked out to the parking lot without looking back.
I called out.
“Daniel.”
He stopped and turned his head, his eyes glaring.
“Make sure the car is washed before you return it,” I said, my voice slow but firm.
According to the ruling, he had a month to transfer ownership.
Ashley, beside him, silently let go of his hand and hesitated, maybe realizing that the love she’d chased came with no guarantees and no security.
I glanced at my best friend.
We both stifled a laugh.
Daniel could believe in his true love with Ashley all he wanted, but in a world built on practical realities, it was nothing more than dust without a foundation.
The court ordered him to return the gifts he’d given Ashley, and he begrudgingly agreed to compensate.
I didn’t argue further.
I simply pulled out my phone and scrolled back to one of Ashley’s messages.
“Without love, marriage is just dust,” she had written.
“It’s bound to fall apart.”
My best friend laughed so hard she nearly fell over.
She was right about one thing: love without stability is just dust.
And Daniel’s love had crumbled faster than we could have imagined.
I heard Ashley and Daniel had a few fights afterward, even arguments about breaking up when she realized she got nothing from the ruling.
Daniel dragged it out until the last possible day before completing the transfer of the house and car.
Part Four
The divorce was finalized on an early morning as the first light of day slipped through the office window of the county courthouse, shining over the desk covered in signatures and official stamps.
Daniel stood near the doorway leading to the hall, his leather shoes polished to a shine, but his shoulders slightly slumped.
He hesitated, his hands in his pockets, his eyes glancing at me, then at the floor, then back again.
Finally, he spoke, his voice hesitant, like he was afraid of something.
“If I said I regret it… would you forgive me?”
He looked up, his eyes glinting with a faint flicker of hope.
“I mean it, Emma.
I… I think I really do regret it.”
I stood still, my fingers lightly tightening around my handbag.
His words passed over me like a breeze—brushing against me, but not strong enough to move me.
I looked at him, not with scorn, but with the quiet relief of someone who had already walked through the storm and come out on the other side.
Just before leaving, he suddenly grabbed my hand.
“Emma, you’re colder than I thought,” he said, his voice trembling, like he was searching for some kind of explanation. “How could you just walk away from ten years? Just end it like that, without even giving me a chance to fix it?”
I pulled my hand back—gently, but firmly—and looked him straight in the eyes.
He didn’t understand, and maybe he never would.
From the moment those red high heels appeared outside our apartment, from the second I heard Ashley’s voice on the phone, from the way he shielded her in front of me, everything had drawn a line we could never cross again.
Just three short months—from the day I discovered his betrayal to the day it all ended.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t argue.
I stayed calm, like an outsider watching it all unfold.
Because deep down, I knew that no matter how much it hurt, we could never go back.
I stepped out of the office building.
The soft morning sunlight rested gently on my shoulders, like it was trying to soothe all the invisible scars.
I wasn’t in a rush.
My steps were slow along the sidewalk, dry leaves crunching softly underfoot like a quiet melody.
When I got home, I opened the windows, letting in the cool breeze to carry away the lingering smell of smoke and the memories of Daniel.
I made a cup of coffee, the steam curling around my fingers, and sat on the sofa, my gaze resting on the wall.
The wedding photo had been replaced with a small painting—a sunflower field glowing golden beneath a bright blue American sky, a reminder of new days ahead.
I was no longer the Emma who clung to the balcony railing in pain, who clutched ultrasound reports with trembling hands on a red‑eye flight.
I was the Emma of quiet mornings, of warm tea and strong coffee, of dreams to travel with my parents, of a future I would write for myself.
Love may scatter like dust.
But me?
I had found myself again—
As free as the breeze drifting through the open window.
Gentle.
But unstoppable.
And sometimes, letting go isn’t losing.
It’s giving yourself a chance to truly live, to care for yourself, and to walk forward on a path lit brightly by the life you choose.
