On our tenth wedding anniversary, Clyde got a sudden, urgent call from a client. As he slipped on his Oxfords in the foyer, I leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “If you pass by that new place on the way back, could you grab me one of those honeydew melon pudding teas? The ones everyone’s posting about online?” His brow furrowed instantly, a shadow of irritation crossing his face. “The boba shop is completely out of the way, Naomi. Why do you want that sugary, artificial junk anyway? You’re not a little girl anymore.” Before the words had even fully settled in the quiet air of our hallway, he was out the door. I stood there in the silence of the empty house, the memory of the search history I’d accidentally seen open on his laptop screen an hour ago flashing in my mind: “How to make the perfect honeydew melon pudding tea at home.” “Best designer heels in a women’s size 6.” “Which app is fastest for buying Olivia Rodrigo tickets?” And just like that, the puzzle pieces clicked into place. His mistress was a girl who drank honeydew custard tea, wore a delicate size 6, and screamed along to Olivia Rodrigo. Meanwhile, my own search bar contained only a single, devastating query: “Late-stage stomach cancer: How to plan end-of-life care and make the most of my remaining time with my spouse?” I went back to the computer, hovered the mouse over the screen, and quietly cleared the history. Then, in the silent, empty spaces of my heart, I began the slow, agonizing process of erasing my ten years with Clyde. … Clyde had forgotten about the tracking app. Six months ago, as part of a family plan promotion with our insurance company, we had both installed a locator app that allowed real-time tracking and ambient audio sharing. At the time, he’d been too busy typing away on his phone to pay any attention to the installation. I opened the app. His icon was glowing red, docked near the arts district. I grabbed my keys, got into my car, and drove toward the blinking dot. The queue outside the trendy new boba joint stretched down the block. Right in the middle of the crowd stood Clyde, standing next to a young girl. She had soft features and bright eyes—she looked so much like a younger version of me that it made my chest ache. She was gesturing animatedly, laughing, sharing some joke with him. Clyde was looking down at her, a gentle, patient smile playing on his lips. It was a look of pure, undivided attention. A look I hadn’t received from him in years. I parked across the street, gripping the steering wheel as a cold numbness washed over me. I pulled out my phone and texted him. “Did you meet up with the client?” “Yeah, just about to head into the conference room. Turning my phone off now,” he replied almost instantly. As soon as the message sent, he slipped his phone into his pocket. Then, he stepped closer to the girl, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. On my dashboard, the tracking app’s listening indicator glowed red. The ambient audio streamed through my car speakers with agonizing clarity. “Hey, old man,” her voice was light and teasing. “Is the aging wife checking up on you again? God, older women are so clingy. Maybe we should buy her a tea to quiet her down.” “No need,” Clyde’s voice was cool, dismissive. “She doesn’t care for this kind of stuff anyway. It’s not her style.” “Not her style.” The words cut like a jagged blade. Back in college, he used to drive across three county lines just to buy me the maple fudge I loved, even if it was half-melted by the time he brought it to my dorm. Everyone said he spoiled me to death, but he’d just laugh, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I have to spoil you, Naomi. That way, you’ll never let anyone else steal you away. You’ll always be my girl.” But now, when I asked for a simple drink, he lied and said it was out of his way, only to queue up with another woman and tell her I was too old for it. A sudden, violent cramp seized my stomach. I slumped over the steering wheel, dry-heaving as a wave of excruciating pain ripped through my abdomen, threatening to tear my insides apart. The phone buzzed in my hand. It was my oncologist. I tried to swipe to answer, but my fingers were stiff and weak. The phone slipped, tumbling into the dark gap beneath the driver’s seat. By the time I managed to retrieve it, the line had gone dead. When I looked back up across the street, they had gotten their drinks. They were sharing a single straw, taking turns, laughing as they tasted each other’s cup. In our ten years of marriage, if I so much as used his fork to taste his food, Clyde would meticulously wipe it down with a napkin twice before using it again. I watched them walk hand-in-hand toward the boutique hotel down the block. I raised my phone, snapped a clear photo of their retreating backs, and sent it to a private investigator friend. “Find out who she is.” That evening, Clyde walked through the front door, rubbing his temples, his voice thick with rehearsed exhaustion. “God, that negotiation took everything out of me. My throat is completely dry.” I sat quietly at the dining table. The elaborate dinner I’d spent all afternoon preparing—full of his favorite dishes—had gone cold hours ago. He glanced at the table, then at me. “Why haven’t you eaten anything?” “I wasn’t hungry without you.” He stiffened slightly. Then, softening, he walked over and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “I’m sorry, babe. Work has just been crazy. I’ll make up our anniversary to you, I promise. Whatever you want, name it.” I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, my phone buzzed in my lap. It was the report from my investigator. “May Collins. 22. Senior at State University.” Ten years younger than Clyde and me. No wonder she called him “old man” and me “the aging wife.” My investigator had also unlocked her private blog. The most recent post showed her lying on a plush hotel bed, her wrists pinned above her head by a man’s hand—a hand with prominent veins and a silver wedding band I knew intimately. The caption read: “Nothing tastes sweeter than the honeydew tea Clyde makes for me. Can’t wait for him to feed me again next time.” I scrolled down. There were dozens of entries. “I told him my stomach hurt, and Clyde literally abandoned his wife at her doctor’s appointment to drive across town and hold me.” “Clyde loves kissing me. He says I smell sweet and fresh, like nothing his wife could ever offer.” “I asked him when he’s going to leave her. He just laughed and said I’ll always be his sweet little girl. Honestly, who cares about a marriage certificate anyway? I don’t need a piece of paper to know he’s mine.” I stared at the screen for a long time. The ringing of my phone broke the silence. It was my oncologist again. “Naomi, the pathology results are back. The cancer cells have already metastasized. We need to start aggressive treatment immediately. I have a targeted chemotherapy protocol…” I stared at the bathroom door, where the sound of the shower was running, casting Clyde’s silhouette against the frosted glass. “Dr. Foster,” I whispered, my voice incredibly flat. “I don’t want the treatment.” “What?” Dr. Foster sounded panicked. “But you’re so young. Naomi, we still have options—” I looked at the shadow of the man I had loved for a decade and let out a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not that young, Doctor. I’m just an old lady.” That night, Clyde was exhausted. The moment his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep, heavy sleep. The next morning, as he was buttoning his shirt, he casually asked, “By the way, your checkup from last week… I had to rush off in the middle of it, but did the lab results ever come back?” I paused, folding his laundry. “Yes. Everything is fine.” He nodded, grabbing his briefcase. “Clyde,” I called out, stopping him at the door. “Would you take me to get that honeydew melon tea today? Just once. I really want to try it with you.” His forehead creased, his patience wearing thin. “Are you still on about that? I told you, it’s artificial syrup. If you want it that badly, go buy it yourself. I have a company to run.” “But I want you to go with me.” His phone buzzed in his hand. He looked down at the screen, and I watched his expression instantly soften, a faint smile touching his lips. When he looked back up at me, his tone had sweetened. “Well, it’s your lucky day. The office ordered that exact boba place for afternoon catering today. If you want some, stop by the office later and grab a cup.” My heart gave a faint, hollow flutter. “Okay.” I arrived at his office downtown around noon. In the breakroom, employees were happily picking up their catering cups, but Clyde was nowhere to be found. I walked down the quiet hallway to his private office and pushed the heavy door open. It was empty. On his desk sat a single cup of honeydew melon pudding tea, the plastic straw visibly chewed at the tip. Then, from behind the built-in mahogany bookshelves, I heard a faint, unmistakable sound—a soft, breathless giggle, followed by a low moan. “Oh, Clyde… I can’t believe you actually built a secret room back here. And this waterbed is amazing. You spoil me so much.” “Well, you’re a demanding little thing,” his voice was thick with desire. “I don’t have a choice.” “What if your boring old wife finds out about our secret nest?” “Don’t talk about her,” Clyde groaned softly. “Focus on me.” The sound of heavy breathing and wet, frantic kissing filled the quiet office. A sharp, cold pain pierced my chest. Three years ago, when I was still working as his operations director, I’d mentioned that my back was aching from the stiff office chairs and asked if we could put a small loveseat in his office. He hadn’t even looked up from his spreadsheet. “Don’t be so dramatic, Naomi. This is a place of business, not a hotel.” Yet here he was, expanding his entire office layout, hiding a secret bedroom behind the shelves just to please May. I realized then that my displacement hadn’t been sudden. He had been quietly pushing me out of his life, piece by piece, for years. “M-Mrs. Hale!” Clyde’s assistant stood at the door, holding a stack of files, looking as though he’d just seen a ghost. I fought down the sudden, violent surge of nausea rising from my stomach. I gave him a faint shake of my head. “Don’t tell him I was here.” But the moment I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, the pain in my stomach peaked. The world went black, and I collapsed onto the polished marble floor. “Naomi! Naomi, wake up!” Clyde’s frantic voice dragged me back to consciousness. I was lying in our bed at home. He was sitting beside me, his eyes wide with a mixture of panic and irritation. “I’ve told you a thousand times to stop these ridiculous starvation diets,” he scolded, his voice rising. “You passed out right in front of the lobby. Do you know how that looks? What if a client had walked in and seen you like that?” Even as he complained, he blew gently on a spoonful of warm oatmeal he had brought up. “Here. Eat some of this.” “I’m nauseous,” I whispered, turning my head away. “I can’t.” “You have to,” he insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I made it myself. I even put in those sweet dates you like.” I looked at him, then quietly turned back and opened my mouth. The oatmeal felt like swallowed glass, scraping against my raw throat and burning my stomach with every agonizing inch it traveled down. But it was Clyde’s cooking. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never taste anything he made for me again. “Cough—” A violent spasm shook my stomach. I gagged, dry-heaving as the oatmeal came right back up, splattering across the pristine duvet. Clyde, always a neat freak, flinched back. His brow furrowed in disgust as he quickly handed me a box of tissues. “For God’s sake, Naomi, you’re an adult. Try to keep yourself together.” I remembered the photo from May’s blog—the one where she had spilled tea on her fingers, and he had playfully licked it off, laughing, calling her his “sweet little mess.” His phone chimed in his pocket. His eyes darted to the screen, his posture stiffening immediately. He stood up, tossing the soiled napkins into the trash. “I have to go. Clean yourself up and eat the rest when you can.” “Don’t go,” I whispered, reaching out to grasp his wrist, my fingers trembling. “Please. Just stay with me for a little while. I really don’t feel well…” “Enough, Naomi,” he said sharply, pulling his hand from my grip with clinical coldness. “I have actual work to do. I don’t have time for these childish tantrums. You’re too old to be acting like this. It doesn’t suit you.” “But my stomach hurts so badly… Clyde, please…” “Slam.” The heavy bedroom door shut, the sound echoing in my ears. I curled into a tight ball on the bed, my face pale from the agony in my gut, my chest so tight I could barely draw breath. The oncologist had told me that without chemotherapy, the pain would eventually become unbearable. But I wanted to hold on just a little longer. I wanted to hold on until Clyde and I could do those three simple things together, to close the book of my life with some semblance of peace. Now, I saw even that was a foolish wish. I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a coat, and took a cab to the hospital, hoping to get some stronger painkillers. The outpatient clinic was packed. While waiting in the long queue, I took out my phone and pulled up May’s public profile again. Her latest update was from twenty minutes ago. A picture of a revealing black lace outfit laid out on a bed. “My new little devil lingerie just arrived. My sweet older man is so wild today, he even took his little blue pills. Looks like I won’t be getting any sleep tonight!” My fingers turned translucent as I gripped the phone, biting my lip until I tasted copper. Over the last few years, Clyde had barely touched me. I had tried everything to reignite the spark, buying silk slips, planning romantic weekend getaways, but he always reacted with cold indifference. Once, when I tried wearing something delicate and daring, he had looked at me with flat, judgmental eyes. “We’ve been married for a decade, Naomi. Act your age. It’s embarrassing.” “Make way! Emergency coming through!” The frantic shouting of EMTs shattered my thoughts. A gurney was being wheeled rapidly through the corridor. Whispers rippled through the waiting room. “Did you see that girl on the stretcher?” “Yeah, apparently she ruptured a cyst during… well, you know. The guy carrying her in didn’t even have his pants zipped up properly…” I stepped back to let them pass, but in the chaos, someone collided with me, knocking me hard against the wall. “I’m sorry, I’m in a rush—” Our eyes locked. Clyde froze, his face draining of all color. His hand, still reaching out to steady me, began to tremble. “Naomi? What… what are you doing here?” “Sir!” a nurse yelled down the hall. “Your wife is in excruciating pain! We need you to sign these forms immediately!” Clyde hesitated for a fraction of a second. He didn’t correct her. He didn’t look at me again. He just turned and sprinted after the gurney. I leaned against the wall, sliding down slowly as a fresh wave of cold sweat broke out across my forehead. An hour later, a text popped up on my phone. “Go home. I’ll explain everything.” I let out a soft, dry chuckle. “Explain what, Clyde?” I had tried so hard to help him keep his secrets. But he had dragged his own mess right in front of my face. I was walking toward the exit when Clyde caught up to me, grabbing my elbow. “Why are you at the hospital, Naomi?” I stared at his disheveled clothes, his collar slightly turned inward. “My stomach was cramping. I came to get some painkillers.” “This is exactly why you need to eat,” he said, his worry instantly morphing into familiar irritation. “Young girls can get away with skipping meals. You can’t.” He glanced back toward the emergency bay, his eyes shifting nervously. “Look… the girl they just brought in, she’s a student I’ve been sponsoring. She got sick suddenly, and she didn’t have anyone else to call. I was just helping her. Don’t overthink this.” I stared at him, and for the first time in ten years, a genuine, mocking laugh escaped my lips. “Clyde,” I whispered. “You keep telling me that I’m old. That I’m not some gullible little girl anymore.” “Naomi…” “Then stop using the kind of cheap, insulting lies you’d tell a little girl on me.” His expression hardened, the lies dissolving into a defensive, weary resignation. “So you know.” “Yes.” “Fine,” he said, his tone shifting to a careless, almost dismissive shrug. “I slept with her. But she knows her place. She’s quiet, and she’s not going to threaten your position as my wife. Don’t make a scene out of this. Give it some time, and I’ll break things off with her. We’ll go back to normal.” The cold in my chest spread through my limbs, leaving me completely numb. “And what if I want you to break it off right now?” He frowned, his eyes snapping with impatience. “I can’t do that. She’s young, she’s fragile. She needs time to process this. Don’t be so selfish, Naomi.” “Selfish.” The word echoed in my mind, so absurd that tears began to leak from the corners of my eyes. “I’m selfish?” I laughed through the tears. “I sold the only house my mother left me to fund your startup. Is that selfish?” “Naomi, that was years ago—” “I gave up my dream job in London to build this company alongside you for ten years. I drank myself into stomach ulcers trying to close deals for you. I was so incredibly selfish, Clyde, that I didn’t divorce you the second I realized you were cheating on me.” A flicker of shame crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a bitter, defensive sneer. “We’ve been married a decade, Naomi. We’re adults. We deal in reality, not fairy tales. May is innocent. She’s simple. She doesn’t talk about business or money. A simple coffee date makes her happy enough to spend the weekend pleasing me.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “And let’s be honest. You can’t have children. I’ve never thrown that in your face. I even got a vasectomy for you. Do you know how much pressure my mother put on me? How much my family laughed at me behind my back? I carried all of that alone.” “So now you want her to carry your child?” “May wants to give me a baby,” he said, as if explaining a logical business transaction. “I’m planning to get the vasectomy reversed. We’ll have a child, and we can raise it together. You should actually thank her. She’s willing to do this with no strings attached, just to lift that burden off your shoulders.” Before I could absorb the sheer horror of his words, his phone rang. He answered it, his voice instantly turning honey-sweet. “Hey, sweetie. Yes, I’m buying it for you right now. Don’t move.” He hung up, gave me a brief, warning look, and walked away. I stood alone in the sterile, white hallway of the hospital. The physical pain in my stomach had faded into a dull, distant hum. In its place was the absolute, peaceful stillness of a dying heart. Clyde and I entered a silent war. He didn’t come home for a week. May’s private blog, however, was updated daily. Clyde took her to the coast. He took her glamping in the mountains. They stayed in every luxury resort she’d ever bookmarked. At a high-end boutique, he knelt down to slip a pair of designer heels onto her size 6 feet, kissing her ankle. During an Olivia Rodrigo concert, the stadium’s kiss-cam caught them on the giant screen. Clyde wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her deeply as the crowd roared. Meanwhile, I lay alone in our dark house, swallowing painkillers until the bottle was empty. I packed my things quietly. I collected every digital receipt, every screenshot, and every photo of their affair, and filed them neatly into a folder. Then, I printed out a set of divorce papers. On the eighth night, Clyde finally came home. “I’m back,” he said, walking into the kitchen and sliding a small box onto the counter. “I got you a little something.” I opened it. It was a delicate diamond tennis bracelet I had admired in a catalog months ago. “I picked it up on my trip to Chicago,” he said, watching me. “I know you wanted it.” I ran my finger over the cold, sparkling stones and closed the box. “I don’t want this anymore, Clyde.” He sighed, his shoulders tensing. “Don’t start, Naomi. What do you want then?” “I want you to wait in line with me to buy a boba tea. I want you to go to the mall and help me pick out a pair of shoes. And I want you to take me to a concert. Just those three things.” Every single thing he had done with May, and never with me. Clyde’s face darkened, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. “Are you stalking me, Naomi? Do you have any idea how pathetic and unhinged that is? What is wrong with you?” “Just promise me you’ll do these three things,” I said, my voice barely a whisper as I forced myself to stay calm. “As my husband of ten years, I am asking you for these last three things. Do this, and I won’t interfere with her.” He opened his mouth to snap at me, but when he saw the tears silently tracking down my face, he stopped. He reached out, his hand hesitating before brushing a tear from my cheek with a rough sigh. “Fine. Fine. We’ll go get your damn tea right now. The other two things we’ll do later, okay?” He drove me to a local boba shop near our house. They didn’t have the honeydew melon pudding tea. He stood in line, his hands in his pockets, looking utterly bored. “Just get whatever,” he muttered when it was our turn. “Get something hot. Sugar-free.” “Why?” “At your age, drinking cold, sugary drinks is bad for your joints and your system.” The young barista behind the counter offered a sweet, polite smile. “You two are so cute. It’s nice to see a husband care so much about his wife’s health.” I took the plain, lukewarm black tea, staring at the plastic cup. “I guess some things,” I murmured, “even when forced, are never what we actually wanted.” “What?” Clyde didn’t hear me. His phone was already ringing. May’s sweet, petulant voice drifted through the receiver. “Clyde, I want that pasta you make. And I want you.” He let out a low, indulgent chuckle. “I’ll be right there, sweetheart.” He hung up and headed back to the car, leaving me on the sidewalk. “I have a meeting across town. Take an Uber back. And make sure you eat something real.” I looked at him and nodded slowly. “I will.” That afternoon, I left the signed divorce papers on the kitchen island, took my suitcase, and bought a one-way ticket to Maine. As the plane taxied down the runway, I turned my phone off. I closed my eyes and let the silence wash over me. The moment the flight landed and I turned my phone back on, it began to vibrate violently. Hundreds of missed calls and text messages flooded the screen.
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