After My Husband Chose His First Love Over Me

After deciding to get a divorce, I booked a flight to the United States. I also put the city center apartment on the market with a real estate agency. It was the home my family had given us, Arturo Patterson and me. Arturo was initially too proud to move in, worried people would see him as dependent. To spare his ego, I gave up my privileges, opting to share a cramped rental with him for six years. Now, with plans to go abroad, keeping the apartment seemed pointless.

When I returned from the agency, Arturo was sitting on the couch. "Where have you been? I called you, but you didn’t pick up. Do you know how long I've been waiting?" His tone was accusatory, as if I had committed some major offense. "Shouldn't you be at the hospital with Luciana? What do you want from me?" I asked with restraint.

"Zendaya, stop being so sarcastic!" he shot back. "I've told you a hundred times; Luciana is just a patient. If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem. Go to the store and pick up a chicken. Luciana is hurt; she needs chicken soup to feel better." His request flowed out as if it were totally reasonable. I was speechless.

Once I regained my composure, it was clear that the man in front of me was shameless. As the silence stretched, he grew impatient, nudging my shoulder and pushing, "Why are you just standing there? Hurry up, or the freshest chicken will be gone. And don’t forget the thyme and carrots; add them in while cooking. Remember, Luciana hates greasy food, so skim the oil before serving."

Even though I was deeply disappointed with Arturo, his requests reminded me of the years we'd spent together. I had always put him first, and he took it for granted without ever returning the care. He didn’t know my favorite food, color, or clothing brand. Two years ago, after I had an appendectomy, I asked him to make me oatmeal. All he did was frown: "Zendaya, your spoiled princess attitude doesn’t cut it here. If you want oatmeal, order it yourself."

Since then, I’d stopped asking him for anything like that. I foolishly believed Arturo was just too focused on his work to understand women. Now, I see the truth: it’s not that he didn’t understand; he simply didn’t care to understand me.

Fighting back tears, I remained silent. Arturo saw my reddened eyes and shifted uneasily. Softening his voice, he continued, "I know skipping the wedding was my fault. I'm sorry, but I had an emergency at work. As a doctor, I had to be there. I thought you'd understand, being married to a doctor. About the wedding, haven’t you always wanted to see the French countryside? How about a destination wedding there next month?"

Arturo hadn’t forgotten his agenda. Even after his lengthy apology, he was stuck on Luciana’s chicken soup. Tired of the argument, I brushed past him and headed toward the bedroom.

"Zendaya, I'm giving you a chance; don’t throw it away!" Arturo shouted after me. "I'm helping you make things right. You liked Luciana’s Instagram post, and there was backlash. She’s been upset for days. It’s a miracle she hasn’t made a bigger deal of it, and you're sulking?"

As I moved away, Arturo’s suppressed anger bubbled over. "Don’t come crying later!" he warned as I closed the bedroom door, responding with, "Just remember to sign the divorce papers."

The only thing left was Arturo’s furious yell, followed by the sound of the door slamming.