Divorce After His Affair

I gently touched my stomach, feeling a wave of sadness wash over me. The emotional weight of the pregnancy test was something only I could truly comprehend. It was my own flesh and blood, making it hard to let go.

Since I became pregnant, he hadn’t bothered to stay by my side. Instead, he let his assistant, Anastasia, flaunt herself in front of me repeatedly. Every time I asked him to stay with me, to give me a little motivation, he’d cite being busy as an excuse while gallivanting around with her. Meetings turned into spa hotel getaways with Anastasia; business trips became bikini holidays in the Caribbean. Incidents like this happened more times than I could count.

I cried and fought, but he never took it seriously. He’d dismiss me with, “She’s just an assistant, what could we possibly have? I want to understand you better, so I connect with her because women understand women better. It’s strictly professional—nothing more than friendship at best.” But today, catching them in our bed, naked, and hearing their whispered words, I realized it was time to end it all.

As the cold liquid coursed through my veins, I gradually lost sensation in my limbs. After the procedure, lying in the hospital bed, I took my phone from the nurse. Instantly, a barrage of missed calls and messages from Harrison appeared on the screen.

“I’m fed up. You’re not answering calls or texts. I’ve just been busy and couldn’t join you for the pregnancy tests. I promise I’ll come next time!”

“Besides, you’ve done so many of these already, you should be used to it. I even had Galilea make spiced honey cake for when you return. Don’t say I don’t care and pick fights with me.”

“Come on, honey, I’m tired too. Don’t throw a tantrum, okay? And don’t use the silent treatment to get my attention. You know I love you.”

Had I not witnessed what I saw this afternoon, I might have actually believed he loved me. In the past, receiving such messages would have made me happy that he reached out, and I might have even apologized. Now, I closed out of the chat, set my phone to Do Not Disturb, and pretended I hadn’t seen anything.

“Ding,” a new message popped up.

“Hey, my boyfriend accidentally tore all my stockings this afternoon. Do you have any recommendations for brands? And if you have suggestions for lingerie, that’d be great, too! You’ve been married for so long, you surely know what men like better than I do.”

Attached was an image of torn stockings littering the floor and a familiar corner of the room. Was she unable to contain herself any longer, aiming for a promotion by flaunting this at me? Waves of heartache crashed over me.

The searing pain in my heart overshadowed the post-anesthetic discomfort. Looking at my bloodstained palm, I let out a surprising chuckle of relief.

The doctor, Jose, checked on me and said everything was fine; I could go home and recover. I packed my things and left the hospital. At home, there was no one. Oddly, I didn’t feel disappointed or angry, only a sense of release. Hadn’t I foreseen this outcome?

I walked into the bedroom, where the mess from this afternoon had been tidied up, leaving no trace of what had occurred. Still, I couldn’t bear it and decided to replace everything in my room.

Once everything was sorted, I felt an unusual lightness, as if I were walking on clouds. Opening the fridge, I found nothing but drinks and beer. The sight of leftover pulled pork didn’t stir my appetite. In the kitchen, I found a pack of near-expired pasta and started boiling water.