My husband watched me miscarry while he was in the car with his new love. When he tried to reach out to me afterward, I told him that unless he was a vegetable, I wasn’t interested. A year later, I read in the news that he had, in fact, become a vegetable. When I lost my baby in the car accident, my world shattered into a million irreparable pieces. I was drowning in a sea of despair, but Milton was nowhere to be found. He happened to be driving by, his sleek car a glimmering facade under the late afternoon sun. I caught a glimpse of him through the chaos, his lips locked in a passionate embrace with his female assistant, her laughter ringing like a cruel mockery in my ears as they waited for the traffic light. Our eyes met for a fleeting second—his filled with indifference, mine bursting with unfiltered pain. And then, without so much as a flicker of recognition, he sped off, leaving me stranded in the wreckage of my life. The world around me faded, the sirens and screams drowned out by the deafening silence of betrayal. That same night, while the shadows danced around me in the bedroom, I stumbled upon something crumpled in the corner of our bed—a thong. Red, lacy, and unmistakably not mine. My heart tightened as I held it between my trembling fingers, the fabric a cruel confirmation of the truth I had tried to ignore. My marriage, once a sanctuary, had become a web of deceit—a lie that ensnared my heart in a suffocating grip. In that moment, clarity washed over me like a tidal wave, pushing away the remnants of denial. I could feel the storm inside me churning, but I forced my voice to remain steady as I reached for my phone. “Mr. Janathan, I’ve made up my mind,” I said, my voice unwavering, even as fury and heartache roiled within. “I can start at your company.” “That’s wonderful news! ” His enthusiasm on the other end of the line was a stark contrast to the numbness that enveloped me. The second I hung up, Milton emerged from the bathroom He used to take five-minute—quick, efficient, just like everything else in his life. But lately, it was different. Half an hour, sometimes more. Always with his phone in hand, as if he couldn’t bear to be disconnected from whatever affair was consuming him. “Who were you talking to?” he asked, eyes glued to his phone, his voice so casual it stung.
“Mr. Janathan,” I replied, my tone deliberately detached, a mask over the tumult inside me. “Ah,” he mumbled, his eyes glued to his phone, absorbed in a world that no longer included me. With a steely calmness, I opened my phone and began drafting my resignation letter. Each tap of my finger felt like a finality, sealing the fate of a life I had once thought was secure. It was only when he reached for his water cup, expecting the rich, fragrant coffee I used to brew for him every night, that he finally noticed something was amiss. The cup sat empty. He paused, confusion flickering across his features, and then his gaze shifted to me—really looked at me, as if he were seeing a ghost materialize in the dim light of our shared misery for the first time in months. “I consulted a specialist,” he said, his tone dripping with nonchalance, as if offering me a peace treaty. “He said it’s just a minor injury, nothing serious.” A minor injury? The words echoed in my head, taunting me. I turned away, my eyes glued to my phone, fingers trembling as I typed. The resignation letter was nearly finished, each word a stepping stone away from him, from this life, from the wreckage of our love. “Alright,” I replied flatly, refusing to meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his presence suffocating me. That afternoon, I found myself lying on a cold hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to the air like an unwanted reminder of my shattered dreams. I was numb and exhausted, the physical pain eclipsed by the emotional turmoil churning within me. Ten stitches across my abdomen. But the real pain was something no amount of sutures could fix. I had just found out I was pregnant—a few weeks along, a fragile flicker of life that now felt like a cruel joke. The doctor’s voice was gentle, heavy with an apology I didn’t want to hear. “If you had been brought to the hospital sooner, the baby might have been saved,” he said, his words slicing through me like a surgeon’s scalpel. Milton’s brow furrowed as he took in my expression, his concern momentarily breaking through the wall of indifference he had built around himself. But just then, his phone buzzed, an insistent vibration that shattered the fragile moment between us. He glanced at the screen, a flicker of anxiety crossing his features before he turned away.
The man who had once vowed to be my partner, my rock, was now a ghost, lost in the labyrinth of his own desires. My heart ached—not just for the baby I had lost, but for the love I had thought we shared, now reduced to a mere shadow of what could have been. His lips curved into a familiar smile—the kind I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. It was warm, inviting, and utterly deceptive, like sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. Without a second thought, he turned away, completely forgetting I even existed in the room. As soon as he was out of sight, I unlocked my phone and opened my secret social media account, a portal to the world he thought I couldn’t access. My heart pounded in my chest like a war drum. I scrolled through his feed, each post a dagger that twisted deeper into my heart. Pictures of him laughing, carefree, his arm draped around a woman . She looked vibrant, alive—everything I felt I had lost. With each photo, I felt the walls closing in, the room around me fading into darkness. My fingers trembled as I navigated through the snapshots of his life, a life I had once shared but was now an outsider to. And there it was, a new post. “I shouldn’t have let my love wait.” The words blurred as my vision narrowed, the bright screen becoming a twisted reflection of my reality. He could spare his assistant an apology for a dinner delay, but not a single ounce of regret for the child we had just lost. The notification from Mr. Janathan buzzed on my phone almost simultaneously as Milton walked into the room, a cruel twist of fate. The contract. I clicked the link and signed it without a second thought, sealing my decision to leave this life behind, as if closing the door on a nightmare. The next morning, Milton woke up earlier than usual, which caught me off guard. His routine had been predictable, his presence almost like a ghost haunting the remnants of our home. But today felt different. He returned with pastries, their sweet aroma wafting through the air, an unsettling contrast to the storm brewing inside me. He placed the bag on the table, and as I reached to open it, his hand shot out, slapping mine away with an unexpected force that took my breath away. “You like blueberry butter cookies, right?” he said, his voice unnervingly casual, the kind of nonchalance that stung like a slap. “I got one just for you.” For a moment, time froze. I stared at him, disbelief washing over me. Blueberry butter cookies? For me? They weren’t for me. They were for his precious Alice Winson. “Seven years, Milton,” I said, my voice trembling with restrained fury, each word dripping with the weight of my pain. “Seven years, and you still don’t know I’m allergic to blueberry?” I could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly masked by a defensive shrug. “It’s just a cookie, Sara. —” He froze, his hand suspended midway to his cup of coffee, caught in a moment that felt like a lifetime. I could feel the weight of his annoyance pressing down on me. Without a moment’s hesitation, he stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound that echoed my turmoil. His voice was cold and biting, cutting through the air like glass. “Stop making a fuss.”
The words hung there, heavy and mocking, a dismissal that burned in my chest. “OK,” I shot back, the words sharp and deliberate, “tell your girlfriend not to leave this on my bed anymore.” Milton’s brows knitted together, confusion flashing across his face as he took the bag from me, the tension coiling tighter between us. When he peeked inside and saw the lace thong, the color drained from his face, and for a split second, shock etched every feature. It was as if the truth had slapped him, the reality of his betrayal suddenly laid bare. But then he met my calm, indifferent expression—one that didn’t seek further lies, . For the first time, I saw him hesitate, the facade flickering like a dying flame. “I’ll tell her to stop being so careless,” he said, his voice cool. Sensing the shift in my mood, Milton offered, almost offhandedly, “I can buy you something else for breakfast today.” I blinked, stunned, the words hanging in the air like a cruel joke. Seven years. Seven long years together, and not once—not once—had he ever brought me breakfast in bed, or even suggested sharing a morning meal. But Alice? His precious assistant? On her very first day, she was already receiving the kind of attention and care I had yearned for, a privilege I’d never been afforded. As I stood there, the realization twisted like a knife in my gut, he was already at the door, back to me, his hand gripping the handle as if it were a lifeline. He didn’t even bother to turn around, didn’t care enough to face me. “Something urgent came up at the office. You should feed yourself,” he muttered, his voice flat, devoid of warmth or empathy. Half an hour later, I limped into my cubicle. My colleagues greeted me with an unsettling mix of sympathy and concern, their gazes lingering just a moment too long, as if they could see the cracks in my façade. I couldn’t help but overhear two coworkers talking in hushed voices, their words slicing through the air with cruel precision. “So it’s true—Milton really ditched Sara for his assistant?” one of them asked, disbelief mingling with gossip. “Yep! You should’ve seen it this morning! Alice comes in, says she’s got a headache, and Milton swoops in, picks her up right there in the lobby, in front of everyone,” the other replied, laughter tinged with malice. My hand slipped, and the mug shattered on the floor with a deafening crash, silencing their gossip. I crouched down, the cool tile pressing against my knees, and gathered the piece. Each shard felt like a betrayal, sharp and jagged, cutting deeper into the already festering wound that was my marriage. I ended up working late, the office nearly empty as the hours dragged on, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead like the heartbeat of a dying relationship.
“Sara,” Milton muttered, his voice low and too close, his breath brushing against my ear like an unwelcome ghost. He draped his coat over me, an attempt at warmth that felt more like a shackle. “Why didn’t you respond to my messages?” I didn’t bother turning around. Instead, I glanced at my phone, the screen glowing with his latest message: [What flavor of dessert do you usually like?] A bitter laugh threatened to escape as I stared at the words on my phone. I had asked him for desserts once, back in the early days of our marriage. His response still echoed in my mind, sharp and cruel, like a slap across my spirit: “Desserts? You want me to buy desserts for you? Don’t make me sick with this childish crap!” Now, the same man was pretending to care, clutching a small box of desserts in his hands as if it were a peace offering. How laughable. The very sight of it made my stomach turn, a mix of sweet nostalgia and bitter resentment churning violently within me. I ignored the sweet scent wafting from the box, its sugary aroma a stark contrast to the bitterness coating my tongue. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the stack of papers in front of me, focusing on the mundane details of my work as if they could shield me from the chaos swirling around us. I could feel his confusion hanging in the air, a palpable shift that weighed down the space between us. His voice broke the silence again, soft but edged with uncertainty. “Sara, I don’t understand. I thought… I thought you’d appreciate this.” “I get a stomachache from desserts now,” I replied, dismissive, my tone as flat as I could make it. Then, his voice dropped, colder than before. “Let’s go home together after,” he muttered, the command hanging between us like a guillotine poised to drop. Barely thirty seconds after he walked away, Milton’s phone lit up on my desk. The brightness pierced through my cloud of thoughts, and I glanced at the screen—Alice’s name flashed like a neon sign, a mocking reminder of his betrayal. The message blinked at me, tauntingly innocent: [Nobody sends a bunch of roses made of desserts all at once?] I shifted my gaze back to the computer, my face blank, fingers moving mechanically across the keys. Each stroke felt like a countdown to liberation, a farewell to the life I had been suffocating in. We got home a little after six. The moment I stepped out of the car, a fire ignited within me. I marched straight to the bedroom, my heart racing as I grabbed my suitcase and began to pack. Clothes, shoes, memories—it all went in without a second thought, each item a testament to the years wasted in a loveless marriage. When Milton walked in, freshly showered and towel-drying his hair, he froze. His eyes drifted to my vanity, the half-empty surface betraying what I had been doing—packing my life away. He frowned, but it wasn’t the concern of a husband; it was mild curiosity, like noticing a chair out of place in a meticulously organized room. “Hey,” he said, his tone casual, “I’m going on a business trip to Milan next month. If you want anything, just make a list, and I’ll grab it for you.” “Nah. I don’t want anything. Thanks anyway.” In a few days, I’d be gone. No gifts, no gestures could fix that now. Suddenly, the air in the room shifted, thickening with tension. Milton tossed the towel onto the bed with a force that echoed my frustration, his eyes narrowing into cold, sharp slits as he bore down on me. “So, what?” he snapped, his voice hardening, cutting through the silence like a knife. “You’re upset because I bought you the desserts?” But before I could muster a single word, he scoffed, dismissing me as if I were a fly buzzing around his head. “Sara, you’re out of line,” he said, his words dripping with disgust, as if I were some inconvenient piece of furniture he was too weary to move. Before I could respond, he turned on his heel and stormed into his own bedroom, slamming the door with a force that reverberated through the walls, making them tremble like the remnants of our crumbling marriage. Seven years. Seven long, excruciating years of this twisted dance. He was always the first to retreat, the master of silent treatments and emotional lockouts, delivering his punishments without a word. Each time, I had bent, humbled myself, and tried to patch the fractures in our relationship. But this time , I felt a shift deep within me—a steel resolve solidifying with each breath. I raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his childish display, and turned off the bedside lamp with a decisive click, plunging the room into darkness.
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