For the past two months, I’d been trapped in a suffocating fog of despair. My wife, Lilian Chase, had just shared the miraculous news that she was pregnant. But then, in a cruel twist of fate, she lost the baby. It was my fault. If I hadn’t been so consumed with delivering takeout and running errands, Lilian would never have dashed into the street in the dead of night, desperate to find me after waking from a nightmare. She wouldn’t have had a car accident and lost the baby. It was already past midnight, nearing 12 a.m. Lilian lay curled up on the bed, and her face was still streaked with the remnants of tears from her latest bout of sobbing. I sat beside her, whispering words of comfort until exhaustion claimed her that she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep. With tears still glistening in her eyes, she clung to the memory of our lost child, unable to let go. This scene became a cruel routine over the past two months. Every time her guilt-ridden sobs echoed through the room, my own guilt gnawed at me, growing heavier with each passing day. I took on extra work, not just delivering food but running long-distance errands, all to provide a better life for her and the future children we dreamed of having. That night, I had accepted an order from six miles away. The rain poured down relentlessly, but the 150-dollar errand fee meant I could take Lilian out for a nice meal. But the roads were slick, and the darkness swallowed everything. After picking up the medicine from a pharmacy on the east side of the city, I rushed to the destination. In my haste, I slipped on the slick pavement, scraping my elbows and knees. But the sting of my scrapes was trivial. Nothing mattered more than delivering that takeout on time. Still, by the time I arrived at Room 1302 in Riverside Heights, the delivery was already overdue. I pressed the doorbell, and after a few moments, a scowling man yanked the door open. My face was hidden beneath my helmet and mask, but I recognized him instantly. His sharp, chiseled features were hard to forget. It was the same man who had hit my wife two months ago at the intersection of Cedarwood Boulevard and, to his credit, drove her to the hospital. I couldn’t dredge up his first name from memory, but I knew for certain his surname was Wilson. When I dashed to the hospital on that fateful day, there he was at the cashier’s office, settling the bill. He explained that Lilian had suddenly darted out into the road. Amidst her tears, Lilian admitted to it. Overwhelmed with guilt, I apologized over and over, and in an attempt to make amends, I paid him five thousand dollars to cover the cost of his shattered windshield. Who would’ve thought that by simply running errands, I’d cross paths with him? “What took you so long?” he snapped, snatching the soggy paper bag from my grasp. “It’s drenched! If you can’t handle this job, maybe you should just quit!” I was on the verge of apologizing, my mouth opening to say “Mr. Wilson,” when a voice from within the apartment halted me in my tracks. It was a soft, languid voice that sent a jolt of electricity through my entire body. “Cutie, why don’t you come in? I’ve been waiting forever!” “I’m coming,” he responded, and his smile was tinged with a hint of lust. Throwing me a dismissive glance, he then turned back inside, slamming the door shut. “The moron won’t be home until two. We don’t have much time.” The voice from within grew faint, but it was etched into my memory. No matter how many years might slip by, I would recognize it anywhere. That was unmistakably Lilian’s voice.
The tiny bear keychain, sprawled out on the floor of the entrance hall, was a creation of my own hands, crafted with love for her. The woman who should have been nestled in our bed, sleeping peacefully, was with another man. I didn’t remember much about how I left Riverside Heights that night. I only recalled the tumble down the staircase, where agony dulled into numbness, and yet, in a haze of disorientation, I somehow pulled myself upright once more. I had to go home. Lilian was waiting for me there. Down below in my neighborhood, one solitary streetlight had been broken and dim. I stood in its shadow, hidden from view, as I watched Lilian step out of a taxi. She looked over her shoulder, nervously glancing around before heading upstairs. I surmised she must have tidied herself up by now, perhaps even settled into bed. With that thought, I stubbed out my eighth cigarette, plastered a hollow smile across my face, and stepped into the elevator. As soon as I opened the door to our apartment, I could hear the familiar shuffle of her slippers. Lilian appeared in her teddy bear nightgown with light yellow fluffy slippers on her feet. She rubbed her sleepy eyes, giving me the impression she had just been roused from sleep by my arrival. “Are you back?” she asked casually, taking my dripping raincoat and hanging it outside the door without a second thought. I shuddered. “It’s quite cold in here. Didn’t you turn on the heating?” Lilian paused, a flicker of shock crossing her face, before she hurried to turn up the radiator. “Maybe it’s broken. It’s not warming up,” she said. “Broken?” I thought. “It’s only been six months since I bought it. How could it be broken?” But I knew the truth. The power had cut off automatically when she left the house to meet her lover. She hadn’t had time to turn it back on when she returned. I simply muttered, “Yeah.” “Why are you so early today?” she asked. “It’s pouring out there,” I answered with a shrug. “Guess folks aren’t in the mood for deliveries tonight.” “Doesn’t that mean we’re losing out on cash? The delivery fees go up when it rains!” she protested. Her lips formed a pout, a hint of frustration coloring her voice. She had no idea that, at night, I wasn’t just delivering food. I was also running errands on the side, taking any job I could find to make extra money. If her heart truly held concern for me, she would’ve picked up on the slight limp as I walked or the tremor that shook my right hand. Yet, she asked not a single question. She was merely playing the part of a wife. The hot water poured over me in the shower, mixing with my tears. Pain and disappointment flowed down my cheeks, but I clenched my teeth, refusing to let out a sound. Lilian and I had been in love for three years before we got married. Two years had passed since then. How could I simply walk away after five years entwined with her? What if the one I truly loved were to suddenly disappear from my life? Would I crumble into pieces? I slapped my own cheek hard. I hated my incompetence and my cowardice. Lilian had been with me for five years, but I still hadn’t given her the life she deserved. The truth was, I was incapable. I couldn’t pledge to her a bright future. Maybe that man was just a momentary lapse for her. Everyone deserved a chance to be forgiven, right? Those nights, I came home early. I settled next to her on the couch, the flicker of the TV casting shadows as we watched shows and scrolled through videos, sharing the quiet intimacy of late-night snacks. She would curl up in my arms, her body language betraying a growing restlessness.
“No orders these days?” Lilian asked. “I’ve been busy for over half a month,” I replied, leaning back on the couch. “I’m exhausted. I just need a break.” She rolled over, her gaze locking with mine, and said in an earnest tone, “It’s around Valentine’s Day, so flower deliveries must be booming. Are you sure you don’t want to cash in on that?” I stayed silent. Her brows furrowed, and her cheeks flushed with anger. She grabbed the remote and hurled it to the edge of the sofa. “I’m tired,” she snapped. “I’m done watching this. Let’s just go to sleep.” Just then, the doorbell rang. I jumped up and hurried to the door, returning with a bouquet of red roses. I handed them to her, my heart pounding. “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’ll love you forever.” But the sweet response I’d hoped for never came. Lilian froze for a moment and took the bouquet stiffly. “Thank you,” she said flatly. My enthusiasm crumbled instantly. “Why the sudden urge to give me flowers?” she asked. “You’ve always said I’m clueless about romance,” I answered, striving to keep my voice from wavering. “Ninety-nine red roses speak the language of ‘forever and ever’. “Honey, will you always be with me?” My gaze must have been too intense because she shifted uncomfortably, her hand brushing her neck. “It’s like a sauna in here. Let me fix the thermostat,” she said, getting up to adjust the heat. She turned away, and I let out a bitter laugh, my eyes burning. “Hey, you know what?” I began. “Four days back, when I was out late, I ended up delivering a box of condoms to Riverside Heights.” The roses slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a soft thud. “And I got to thinking,” I continued, “what kind of couple goes six miles out of their way to a drugstore for condoms? Certainly not the respectable kind.” I stepped closer, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “How could they compare to my perfect wife at home?” Lilian’s back stiffened, her shoulders trembling. I approached her, placing my hands on her tense shoulders, speaking as much to her as to myself. “Do you know what I saw? “I saw that guy who took you to the hospital last time. What’s his name again? Hugh Wilson, right? “What did you call him in there? Cutie? And what did you call me? Moron?” “No, honey, please, let me explain,” she pleaded. “Moron?” I echoed, my voice rising. “What a thoughtful nickname! Should I act foolishly to match it?” My eyes, red and swollen, throbbed with pain as I fixed my gaze on her guilty face, her eyes brimming with tears, but I couldn’t shed a single tear. Why? I kept asking myself. Why? Why was I the one who’d been devoted to her while she could smile at me and sleep with other men just two months after she lost the baby? “You said you weren’t feeling well, so I didn’t touch you!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “There were twelve condoms in that box! Twelve!” The pain in my chest felt like a thorn, twisting and digging deeper into my spine. Lilian collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. She clutched at the hem of my pants, her voice breaking as she pleaded for a chance to explain. “What’s there to explain?” I yelled. “Going to another man’s house for a late-night snack? What did you use? A condom? “Let’s get a divorce, Lilian.”
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