Ten years into my marriage, I had gotten used to being alone. I went to the hospital alone. I went to the movies and ate dinner alone. Even this afternoon, when I was rear-ended, I handled it alone. Staring at the birthday cake on the table, I called him. He declined the call. A text from Tom popped up. Two words: Working late. I lit the single candle, then blew it out. My phone screen lit up with a notification for a viral post. [From the driver's expression, guess if the person in the passenger seat is his girlfriend or his wife.] The top comment read, “Definitely a girlfriend. If my wife was in the car, my face would be planted on the steering wheel by now.” I stared at the familiar profile in the photo, at the good luck charm hanging from the rearview mirror, and I didn’t move for a very long time. At two in the morning, the front door opened. He walked in and placed a jewelry box on the coffee table. “Happy birthday.” I looked at him, my voice quiet. “Is she pretty?” 1 My phone screen was still lit up, displaying the post. “Lucy is just the new intern,” Tom explained. “Don’t overthink it.” I stood up, my voice stubbornly repeating the question. “Is she pretty?” He frowned. “She’s… cute.” I closed my eyes. A sharp pain pierced my chest, and a tear slid down my cheek. He pulled me into his arms, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Alright, still the jealous type, huh?” A strange perfume, not mine, filled my senses, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I pushed him away. His brow furrowed, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “I already explained. Believe it or not, that’s up to you.” It was the same as always. He didn't even have the patience for a real conversation. The bedroom door slammed shut. On the floor, the diamond necklace he’d brought home glittered under the lamp light. I’d seen Lucy’s social media post from earlier tonight. She was showing off an identical one. Even my birthday gift was just a lazy, thoughtless afterthought. That night, I scrolled through every single one of Lucy’s posts. And I found Tom’s private account. October 8th. Lucy posted that she was craving chocolate cake. Tom had commented: Got you one. Be there in a bit. November 3rd. Lucy posted about wanting to go on a trip. Tom’s comment: Tickets are booked. We leave tomorrow. … There were so many. Too many to count. All those little moments of warmth I thought were for me—the cake, the boba tea, the new handbag—they were all just leftovers, scraps he brought home for me after spoiling her. We had so many of the same things. It was a mirror image of a life I didn’t know he was living. Tears blurred my vision. I had always told myself this was just a normal phase of marriage. The lull after the storm. The comfortable silence that replaces endless conversation. But the first sign of fading love is the death of the desire to share. Sunlight streamed through the window, but I felt no warmth at all. Tom emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a sharp suit. He saw me, still on the couch, and sighed. “What do you want from me? Should I have her come over and explain it to you herself?” I stood up. “No, that won’t be necessary.” He started to speak, but his phone rang. As he pulled it out, I caught a glimpse of the caller ID. Moonbeam. His entire demeanor softened as he answered. “Don’t cry. I know about the proposal. It’s okay if you made a mistake, I’ll take care of it.” His voice was gentle, patient. “Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll come get you. I’ll even buy you your favorite dumplings.” He hung up and met my gaze. “I’ll be home early tonight to have dinner with you.” The apartment fell silent again. Just like our marriage. You could drop a stone in it and it wouldn’t even make a ripple. Before we were married, his name for me in his phone was My Wife. Pinned to the top of his contacts. A special alert for all my calls and texts. Then, one day, he unpinned it. Said he was worried about losing his phone and getting scammed. My contact name changed from My Wife to just… Hannah. He would move mountains for his Moonbeam, but he couldn’t be bothered to give me a second glance, a few extra words. The auto shop called. My car was ready. I went to the bathroom and stared at the haggard woman in the mirror. Her eyes were dull, the fine lines around them more pronounced. This marriage was a hand wrapped around my throat, slowly squeezing the life out of me. At the dealership, while I was signing the paperwork, I overheard two young women talking. “This couple came in yesterday, and the guy was incredible. Bought two cars, just like that.” “I’m so jealous. He was like, ‘If you like them both, just get them both.’” I kept signing, but their next words made my hand freeze. “The girl’s name was Lucy. She’s a pretty popular blogger, actually.” “Yeah, her feed is all lovey-dovey posts lately. I think her boyfriend’s last name is Bennett.” 2 Driving home, a bitter taste filled my mouth, spreading through my entire body until even breathing hurt. I was fifteen when I met Tom. We married at twenty-five. I’m thirty-five now. We started with nothing and built a comfortable life. But somewhere along the way, he became a stranger. I pulled into a parking spot, got out, and walked into a nearby park. I sat on a bench, watching a young couple laughing and playing in the distance. Youth is a beautiful thing, I thought. To be able to love so freely, so openly. My phone rang. It was Tom. “The insurance company called me about renewing the policy,” he said. “They also mentioned you were in an accident yesterday?” A cool breeze blew past, and for a moment, my mind felt completely clear. “Yes.” His voice was tinged with concern. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I looked away from the couple. “I could handle it myself.” Silence. Then, the dial tone. There was a time when I thought he was my rock. No matter what happened, he was the first person I would call. Once, during a thunderstorm, the power went out. I was terrified and called him while he was on a business trip. “Hannah, how old are you?” he’d snapped. “Can’t you handle it yourself? It’s so annoying having to deal with your problems all the time.” After that, I stopped calling him. When I was hospitalized with acute gastritis, I was alone. When my mother passed away, I handled the funeral arrangements alone. Even… even that thing at the beginning of the year. I never told him about that either. As dusk fell, I went home, ordered some spicy noodle soup, and lay down on the couch. The door opened. I glanced at the clock. It was only eight. For the last two years, Tom had never come home before nine. Once, we went three entire months without speaking a single word. He walked over and took my hand. “Hannah, you’re my wife. If something’s wrong, you need to tell me. We’re supposed to face things together.” I pulled my hand away. His touch felt foreign, unsettling. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d held hands. Let alone kissed. We had been sleeping in separate rooms for a long time. We weren’t husband and wife. We were roommates. “Tom, I can handle it myself.” He lost his composure, his voice rising. “Then what do you need me for? You do everything yourself. Is that all I am to you? A decoration?” I clenched my fists, trying to keep my face neutral. “Isn’t that what I am?” I shot back. “You’re the one who said I shouldn’t bother you with things I can handle myself. You said that even though we’re married, we’re still individuals.” His voice was hoarse. “Are you really going to hold onto that one thing for so long?” It wasn’t that I wanted to hold onto it. It was that every time I tried to talk to him, I could say a hundred words and he wouldn’t reply with one. My desire to share had slowly withered and died. Then he started ignoring my calls. Whenever I needed him most, he was nowhere to be found. The truth was, I could handle everything by myself. I had to. “Tom, Lucy is the one who needs your protection, isn’t she?” Lucy was younger than me, more vibrant. All it took was one phone call, and he would drop everything and run to her. Including that day at the beginning of the year. The day I was lying on a cold operating table, and the space for my husband’s signature on the consent form was empty. Just before the anesthesia took hold, a nurse had handed me the clipboard. Hearing her name now, his anger flared. “Are you insane? Are you trying to make me feel guilty with these pathetic, passive-aggressive comments?” “Lucy is my intern. As her boss, I’m just looking out for her.” I laughed, a cold, empty sound. “Is that it? So, you buy her cars, take her on trips, and when my own mother died, you were with her, stargazing in London?” I met his eyes. “Tom, why even bother with the charade?” He was about to say something else when a knock came at the door. Lucy’s cheerful voice chirped from the hallway. “Hello! Your food delivery is here!” 3 I opened the door and saw her in person for the first time. Twenty-two. The age of a blooming flower. She was wearing a short, pink skirt, her body flawless, her skin radiant. She looked at me, her clear eyes filled with an undisguised contempt, and placed the takeout bag on the entryway table. “You must be Mr. Bennett’s wife. I’m his intern, Lucy.” She extended a hand, and my eyes immediately fell on the diamond ring sparkling on her ring finger. My wedding ring. It had mysteriously disappeared six months ago. Now, it was on her hand. Lucy’s smile widened, her voice light and airy. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Mr. Bennett gave it to me. Oh, and here’s your food.” She gestured to the bag. “But a little friendly advice? At your age, eating heavy, salty food at night will make you bloated. Your metabolism just can’t handle it anymore.” I picked up the bag of noodle soup and, right in front of them, dropped it into the trash can. “You have a point,” I said, my voice even. “Some things are better off thrown away.” Lucy’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Are you doing this on purpose? If you don’t like me, I’ll just leave.” Tom stepped in front of her, shielding her. “What’s your problem?” he snapped at me. “Lucy was kind enough to bring you food, and you just throw it away like that?” “Mr. Bennett, please don’t fight,” Lucy sobbed. “It’s just a bag of takeout,” he said, his voice dripping with impatience. “She’s young, she doesn’t know any better. Why are you picking a fight with her? Throwing it away like that… you’re being cruel.” Cruel. I looked at Lucy’s triumphant, tear-streaked face, and I suddenly wanted to laugh. I was twenty-two once. Young and full of life. I gave him the best years of my life. I lived with him in a basement apartment, ate ramen noodles with him, cooked him hangover soup when he came home late from networking events, and swallowed every single one of my own frustrations and disappointments. Now I was thirty-five. I had fine lines around my eyes and calloused hands from years of taking care of him. I was the shadow that followed him. And because I threw away a bag of takeout delivered with an insult, he called me cruel. My voice was calm when I spoke. “Tom, my ring. Does it look good on her hand?” His eyes darted away, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “She found it. I was just about to ask her to give it back to you.” A mocking laugh escaped my lips. “Really? She just happened to find my wedding ring in my jewelry box and decided to wear it herself?” The color drained from Lucy’s face, and she quickly hid her hand behind her back. Tom’s embarrassment turned to anger. “That’s enough! It’s just a ring. Do you have to be so aggressive?” He turned to Lucy. “Give her the ring back.” Lucy bit her lip and slowly, reluctantly, slipped the ring off her finger. It “accidentally” slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor. I didn’t move to pick it up. Seeing my inaction, Tom bent down, retrieved the ring, and held it out to me, his voice tight with suppressed fury. “Hannah, here’s your ring. Now stop making a scene.” The heart that had once beaten so fiercely for him was sinking, sinking into an abyss so deep I could no longer feel the pain. Favoritism doesn’t need a reason. His heart favored Lucy, so no matter what I did, I would always be in the wrong. Suddenly, I felt tired. So tired that I didn’t have the energy to say another word. “You can keep the ring,” I said. “Or give it to someone you think deserves it.” I paused. “And one more thing. Tomorrow, two o’clock, at the courthouse. Let’s get a divorce.” 4 Tom blinked, his voice uncertain. “Are you serious?” I looked at the trash can. “Yes. This noodle soup is like our marriage. It looks hot and steamy, but it’s already gone bad.” Without another word, I walked into the bedroom and closed the door. The voices outside faded away. I sat with my back against the door for a long time. In our wedding photo on the wall, a twenty-five-year-old Tom was looking down at me, his eyes shining like stars in a summer sky. We were so poor then. He had used three months of overtime pay to buy me my first gold necklace. “Whatever other people have, you’ll have too,” he had said. “You’re my star.” He bought me more expensive jewelry over the years, but I only ever wore that gold chain. Six months ago, it broke. I took it to be repaired, but the jeweler said it was too worn down to be fixed. He had found his moon now. He didn't need his star anymore. The next afternoon, at the courthouse. Tom’s car pulled up right on time. But he wasn’t alone. Lucy hopped out of the passenger seat and linked her arm through his. “You don’t mind if I come along, do you? Today is an important day. I want to be here to support Tom.” I ignored her. “Let’s go.” He frowned, and we walked up the steps of the courthouse like two strangers, one behind the other. Suddenly, there was a screech of tires and a chorus of screams from behind us. I whirled around. Lucy had fallen down the steps. A car, not seeing her, had driven straight into her. “Lucy!” Tom flew down the steps like a madman, dropping to his knees beside her. A pool of crimson was quickly spreading beneath her. He screamed at me, his voice raw. “An ambulance! Call an ambulance!” I stood frozen at the top of the steps, my hands and feet turning to ice. It had all happened so fast. I didn't even see how she fell. Tom took off his jacket and covered her with it, calling her name over and over. Lucy’s eyes fluttered open. She pointed a weak, trembling finger at me. “It was you… you did this…” The veins on his forehead bulged. He roared, his voice cracking with rage. “Stop pretending! I knew something was wrong yesterday when you were so calm. You hate her, you hate me, so you chose today to do this. Hannah, how could you be so evil?” His voice dropped to a choked whisper. “She’s pregnant. She’s carrying my child.” A murmur went through the crowd of onlookers. Dozens of eyes turned to me, their gazes like needles piercing my skin. I looked at Lucy. And in that moment, I saw it. A flicker of a cold, triumphant smile. It was a setup. She was using her own child to utterly destroy me. A deep, bone-chilling cold settled in my heart. “In your mind, is that really the kind of person I am?” His eyes were bloodshot, and every word he spoke was a dagger. “What else am I supposed to think? You threw away her food yesterday. Are you going to deny that you hate her? You’re a murderer.” Those four words were the final, crushing blow. In that instant, every emotion I had suppressed broke through the dam of my reason. I reached into my bag and pulled out a manila envelope. The envelope I had brought with me for my follow-up appointment today. Under his furious, hateful gaze, I threw it in his face. Papers scattered, fluttering to the ground like ashes. On the top was a surgical consent form from the city hospital, dated at the beginning of the year. Patient: Hannah Bennett. Procedure: Lumpectomy. Date: January 12th. Family Signature: Self. Tom froze. Tears streamed down my face, but I was laughing, my whole body shaking. “A murderer? Aren’t you the murderer?”
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