The night I decided to get a divorce, a single social media post blew my entire world apart. I had just posted on Instagram when my phone screen started blowing up with fifty-six missed calls. I shut the phone down immediately, without a single shred of hesitation. Just a few hours ago, I had accidentally stumbled upon my husband Stockton’s private social media account. That was how I uncovered a fourteen-year-old lie. It was filled with his endless yearning for his first love, Olivia, and even proudly documented how he had adopted Olivia’s child. "Loving your child is just another way of loving you. Let our love flow through his veins." Yet, I was the one who had managed the household, spent ten years raising this child by his side, and helped him through his hardest times. In the story of his life, I didn't even exist. At first, when I saw that post, I actually scoffed. What kind of idiot would raise another woman's child for her husband's first love? I scrolled down a few pages. It was all diary entries and quotes about unrequited love. But the moment I looked closely at the handwriting in those quote images, I froze. That elegant cursive belonged to my husband, Stockton. He had studied under my father, a renowned literature professor, for twenty years, starting from when he was just a young student. My father always praised his handwriting; Stockton was his prized protégé. I still couldn't believe it. I scrolled through his posts from the very beginning. The very first entry was dated June 10, 2010. It read: "High school is over, but our youth isn't. To my dream girl, I wish I could protect you forever. I'm dedicating this account to my silent love for you." It had been exactly fourteen years. And he had updated it every single day. In the morning, after we made love, he would whisper "I love you" to me. But then he would log onto that account and write: You are the blurry line between hopeless waiting and unwavering faith. At noon, he would text me to ask if I had eaten, reminding me not to forget the fresh fruit he had packed for me. But on that account, he wrote: Everyone has something they hold onto, even when they know it's completely pointless. At night, he would hold me to sleep, a happy smile on his face, telling me tonight would bring sweet dreams. But his account read: You cannot be my poetry, just as I cannot be your dream. Our son, Julian’s smiling face was sprinkled throughout those posts, as if mocking my years of foolishness and wishful thinking. Julian’s loud voice calling out for dinner broke my train of thought. I heard Stockton leading him through the front door. After soothing the boy, Stockton walked into the kitchen to cook. When I walked out of the study, ten-year-old Julian looked at me in surprise. "Mom? You're home? Why didn't you cook? Dad and I thought you were out." Stockton walked out carrying two plates of pasta and was startled to see me. "I didn't know you were home, honey," he said apologetically. "You and Julian go ahead and eat. I'll whip up another plate for myself." I stared at him for a long time, trying to find a crack in his eyes. There was nothing. Except for regret and warmth, I couldn't find a single trace of negativity. He didn't even show any impatience about having to heat up the kitchen again in the middle of a scorching summer. I shook my head, signaling I had no appetite. I was too disgusted to eat. I watched Stockton take a picture of Julian eating. Suddenly, I asked him, "You're always taking pictures of Julian, but I never see you post them on Instagram. Where do you keep them?" Stockton's back stiffened. A tiny crack finally appeared in his perfect facade. He forced a calm smile. "I don't post them much. They're all backed up on my cloud drive. They're just for memories." Julian piped up from the table. "Yeah, Dad shows them to me all the time! He writes these super cool captions for them. He's way more detailed about my growth than you are, Mom!" With that, the two of them exchanged a knowing, playful look. Ah. It turned out father and son were cut from the same cloth. Neither was innocent.
That night, I created a burner account and immediately set Stockton’s private profile to 'Favorites'. I took screenshots of every single post he had ever made. About ten minutes later, a notification popped up. Stockton had posted something new. It was a picture of Julian eating pasta. The caption read: Sharing a little secret with Julian today. It reminds me of the pink wish-paper we used to hide under the old oak tree. Like a masochist, I chewed on his words over and over again. They were dripping with his deep, desperate love for another woman. Because of his love for her, he showered Julian with unconditional, blatant affection. But what about me? Who was I? Who was the woman who had stayed by his side since they were teenagers, weathering every storm with him, only to not even deserve a whisper of acknowledgment? What did I do wrong? Why did he treat me like this? Why did they both treat me like this? I sat there for a long time, even starting to question if I had some fatal flaw as a partner, a wife, or a mother. There was no answer. I heard Stockton calling my name from outside the bathroom. When I opened the door, he turned around and smiled at me. All my emotions—anger, resentment, panic, helplessness, and humiliating exposure—swirled in my chest, threatening to tear me apart. Looking into his clear, innocent eyes, the confrontation was right on the tip of my tongue. Deep down, I knew I should just expose this trash bag of a man and walk away. I shouldn't waste another second of my life on him. But I was so angry. I had poured so much time, money, and love into this marriage. How could I just quietly slink away like a loser? But if I dragged myself through this mud, what would I gain? Make him leave with nothing? I already had my own money. Make him realize his mistakes and love me? What would I do with his dirty, secondhand love? With that final thought, I walked out of the bathroom and stopped right in front of him. "Let’s get a divorce, Stockton." The moment those words left my mouth, not only did he freeze, but I did too. I hadn't expected to say it so easily. From the moment I saw that account until now, a suffocating weight had been crushing my chest. But now, saying "divorce" brought a strange wave of relief alongside the heartbreak. Stockton looked utterly bewildered. He stepped forward to hug me, but I stepped back. He stood there, completely lost. For a second, I was almost impressed by his acting skills. "Caroline, can I at least ask why?" "We’ve been together for fourteen years. We barely ever fight. Our only disagreements are about Julian's school." "Is this about Julian's soccer sign-ups? Do you feel like I didn't respect your opinion? We can talk about it!" "I will never agree to a divorce, Caroline. We have a child we raised together. We have a happy home." I let out a mocking laugh. "A child?"
Thinking I was wavering because of Julian, he quickly added: "Yes! We've raised Julian for ten years. Ever since we brought him home from the orphanage as a baby, you said it was fate." Seeing my guard slip slightly, he walked over and wrapped his arms around me, trying to soothe me the way he always did. In his embrace, a memory flashed in my mind. It was when Julian first came to our house. He was only three or four months old, and he wouldn't sleep at night. Stockton and I took turns holding him, staying up all night. Stockton would hold Julian just like this, patting his back and softly singing lullabies to him. Back then, I thought he was the gentlest man in the world. I felt so incredibly lucky to be his wife. I wondered if he would be even happier if I could give him a biological child. But I couldn't. Due to some health issues, my chances of getting pregnant were extremely low. For the first four years of our marriage, we never used protection, yet I never got pregnant. I used to feel so guilty and broken over it. But he had comforted me, saying, "It’s okay, Caroline. Having you and Julian is already the greatest blessing of my life." I didn't say anything else that night, and Stockton assumed he had successfully calmed me down. But he forgot one thing. I had always said I would never throw the word "divorce" around lightly. But once I said it, I would never look back. The next day, I packed my bags and moved back to my parents' house, leaving the father and son in our marital home. Stockton didn't object. He claimed I was just in a bad mood and that spending time with my parents would help clear my head. I played a song on repeat—a sad ballad about being the third wheel in one's own relationship. I'm just a shadow in your perfect picture, always there but never seen. My finger slipped, and I accidentally shared the song to my public Instagram story. Five minutes later, I saw that Stockton had posted a quote on his private account: Some people aren't meant to belong to you, but it was still nice meeting them. Ha. I had just provided him with fresh material for his tragic romance. He was really pushing my limits. On the third day of moving back, I sat in my father’s study, sorting through our marital assets. When Stockton married me, he had absolutely nothing. It was my father's financial backing and professional connections that paved the way for his career to take off. I could accept that he fooled my heart—that was on my own stupidity. But he was not taking my money. When my dad pushed the door open to call me for dinner, Stockton's voice drifted in. He was downstairs, chatting with my mother about the real estate market. He was always so smooth. He talked about art with my dad, business with my mom, and played the romantic hero with me. When I sat down at the dinner table, Stockton looked over with a warm smile. He mysteriously pulled a designer gift bag from behind his back. "The new seasonal bag. I picked it up for you the moment it hit the store. I also came to take you home." I kept my head down and ate without saying a word. Sensing the tension, my dad playfully scolded me in front of Stockton for being stubborn. Watching Stockton act as if nothing had happened, I sighed inwardly. My mom asked, "Where's Julian? Why didn't he come to dinner?" "I sent him to my mother's place for the weekend. Caroline and I had a little misunderstanding, so I’m taking her home for some quality couple time." My mom laughed. "Stockton, you're always so romantic. When Harrison makes me mad, he just tells me to calm down. He even made me angry yesterday!" Stockton pulled out another gift bag with a smile. "Then it looks like I bought the right gift. The associate said this style suits you perfectly, Mom. See if you like it." My mom loved receiving gifts, and she was always the best hype-woman. She pulled the bag out, immediately draped it over her shoulder, and asked my dad, "How do I look, Harrison?" "Beautiful, beautiful! Anything Stockton buys looks good on you!" I rested my chin on my hand, watching the three of them. I felt like whatever I said right now would just ruin the perfect family picture. I almost regretted finding that private account. It had shattered a very comfortable illusion. Right then, Stockton’s phone rang. It was a custom ringtone he had set specifically for Julian. My mom hadn't seen Julian in a while, so she gestured for Stockton to put it on speaker. But as soon as he picked up, Julian’s panicked voice screamed through the speaker: "Dad! Quickly go online! Mom got hurt on set!" Stockton’s smile instantly shattered. My parents froze in their tracks. Aside from me, my dad was the first to snap out of it. He frowned. "Julian has another mom?" Stockton’s face turned white, and he couldn't speak. Hearing my dad's voice, Julian realized his mistake, went quiet, and instantly hung up. Stockton had been my dad's student for half his life. He sat there, stiff as a board, not daring to say a word. My dad turned his sharp gaze to me. "You suddenly moved back. You found out something, didn't you? If he won't talk, you tell me."
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