After the divorce, he cried and begged me to forgive him.
Chapter 4
“Why are you here?” I asked softly, my voice nearly carried away by the evening breeze.
“Today’s our wedding anniversary,” he said, opening the car door for me, his tone calm—as if nothing had ever happened.
“Is it?” I gave a faint smile. “Sorry, I forgot.”
“Mabel, you never forget.” He frowned slightly, as though it was the first time he’d realized I had truly changed.
Once, I would spend days preparing for our anniversaries—
setting the table by hand, choosing scented candles, planning surprises.
He used to smile then.
Later, he started calling me “too dramatic,” “too much.”
I still remembered the time he pulled me aside in front of his colleagues, lowering his voice to scold me:
“Mabel, do you have to make such a scene? It’s embarrassing.”
My smile froze that day.
And now, he acted as if none of it had ever happened.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s get dinner.”
The car ride was silent—so quiet I could hear our breathing.
Streetlights slid past the window one by one, and my mind went blank.
He glanced at me a few times before finally breaking the silence.
“Are you still mad?”
“No,” I said flatly.
“No? Then what’s that look supposed to mean?”
His voice sharpened, tinged with impatience.
“I rushed back just to spend time with you, and this is the attitude I get?”
I pressed my lips together and said nothing.
He sighed, as though offering a reluctant compromise.
“Fine. I know you’re upset about Pearl. I won’t talk to her anymore, alright?”
I looked at him, a faint chill of irony rising in my chest.
Did he really think a few careless words could erase the lies, the betrayal, the distance?
“Happy now?” he asked again.
I still didn’t answer.
The car pulled into a luxury restaurant parking lot.
He had already made a reservation—flowers, gifts, the whole setup.
A perfect little scene, rehearsed for a perfect reconciliation.
Just as I reached for the gift box, his phone rang.
The ringtone sliced through the air, shrill and unforgiving.
“Fever?... How high?... Okay, I’ll come right away.”
His words spilled out fast, full of urgency.
When he hung up, he hesitated before meeting my eyes.
“It’s Pearl. Her kid’s sick—high fever. I have to go.”
I smiled faintly, my voice even and hollow.
“It’s fine. Go ahead. The child’s more important.”
He looked at me, as if wanting to explain more, but finally only said,
“I’ll come back for you soon,” and hurried out.
I sat alone at that carefully decorated table, staring at the half-eaten cake.
Outside, the rain fell harder,
raindrops drumming against the glass like a restless heartbeat.
I quietly finished the last bite, then stood and left.
By the time I got home, the rain had soaked me through.
I took off my coat and showered in hot water, but no warmth could drive away the cold.
As I was drying my hair, my phone lit up.
A new post from Pearl.
In the photo, she leaned against a sofa with her child in her arms.
John crouched beside them, taking the boy’s temperature.
The lighting in the room was soft and warm, a stark contrast to the storm raging outside my window.
At dawn, the door lock clicked.
John was back.
He barely crossed the threshold before explaining in a rush,
“Jack’s fever was bad last night—it wouldn’t go down. I had to stay.”
Jack—
Pearl’s child.
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