Divorce Is a Stretch, Don't You Think?

During the third year of our marriage, my husband's ex—whom he dated for eight years—suddenly shares a photo of a ten-million-dollar marital home on her social media. It's captioned, "I've finally gotten a mansion! Who's the best at dating? I am!"

I gape at the image—I see my husband swiping his card at the real estate sales office in a corner of the photo. I leave a question mark in the comments.

In the next second, my husband calls me to tell me off. "I'm just making good on a promise I made her when we were dating—to buy her a marital home. Why did you have to go insult her like that? Are you evil enough to turn me into a man who goes back on his word?"

That evening, his ex shares another photo of a million-dollar renovation bill.

I know it's a gift from my husband to appease her, but I don't care anymore…

When Cameron Jensen came home, I was taking paroxetine for depression.

Since Rowena Sherman came into the picture, my marriage with Cameron had become suffocating, and it had led me into moderate depression.

Cameron came over, snatched my pills, and threw them in the trash. "You're popping pills every time I get home. Can't you cut the pathetic act?"

He pulled out a bouquet and tossed it at my feet. "Rowena got this for you. I asked her how I should punish you so she'd stop being mad, but she's too kind. She said she'll let it slide as long as you apologize."

I stared at the half-dead bouquet on the table. I sniffed, and the stench of rotting stems hit me.

Three days ago, Rowena had posted this same bouquet online with the caption, "Fresh flowers and a man to make for a perfect afternoon!"

Those painful memories came rushing back. I grabbed a paring knife to peel an apple, hoping to take my mind off things. "I don't want anything from her. It's gross."

Cameron scowled, sounding frustrated. "What's with the stuck-up attitude? She already sent you a gift. Is it really that hard to apologize?"

I didn't budge.

"Stop being ungrateful. You're at fault, and Rowena's already made an effort to make peace!" Cameron lost his patience and kicked the dining table.

The force was enough to flip it over, and I crashed to the ground with it. Just my luck, the paring knife stabbed right into my palm.

Blood came rushing out of my right hand, soaking through my white T-shirt in no time. The pain was so bad, it had me shaking all over.

Cameron flew into a panic. "I'll take you to the hospital."

I kept quiet and followed him down to the garage. The moment I got into the car, I noticed the passenger seat was different—now sporting a brand-new pink cat design.

His car used to have an all-black interior. Clearly, someone had made the change in the last few days.

"I dated her for eight years, remember? When we were together, I promised I'd do whatever she asked in the future," Cameron said.

He glanced at me and muttered, "She wanted to change the seat, and it's not a big deal. What? You're not going to freak out over something this small again, are you?"

I bent down, climbed into the car, and fastened my seatbelt. "No, pink's actually cute."

A flicker of surprise crossed Cameron's eyes. "You're not asking me to change it back?"

I pursed my lips.

Every time I saw Rowena leave traces in Cameron's life, I'd get rid of her stuff. But now, I couldn't care less about anything.

"Hurry up and get me to the hospital. My hand's killing me," I said flatly.

20 minutes later, we were almost at the hospital entrance when Cameron's phone rang.

"What's up, Rowie?"

Rowena's sobs came through the phone. "The villa's way too big, and I'm scared of being here alone."

"Calm down." Cameron's eyes were full of concern. "Turn the lights on. I'll be there in 20 minutes."

He slammed on the gas. Three minutes later, he screeched to a stop at the hospital entrance.

I curled up in the seat, suddenly hit with a wave of somatic symptoms. I gasped for air, sweat soaking me through. My hands were shaking, and my head was spinning.

"Cameron, I feel terrible. Can you help me inside? I can barely walk," I said.

Cameron shot me an impatient look. "You're pretending to be sick again? You only feel awful when Rowena calls. What, is she like a knife twisting in you or something?"

He flung open the passenger door, pulled me out of the car, and sped off without a care.

I crouched on the ground, trembling uncontrollably from the somatic symptoms, and couldn't move.

The sky was still dumping rain, drenching me in seconds, including the wound on my palm. I was in so much pain that my face went pale. I curled up on the ground, watching the cars drive by.

Luckily, a kind woman saw something was off and came over to help, stopping things from getting worse.

Half an hour later, I began feeling normal again but heard something that blew my mind.

"Ms. Tuttle, you're pregnant."

"Can I go ahead with the abortion now?"

"It can only be done during the day."

Once I got the wound bandaged, I went home and changed into something dry.

Cameron happened to come home. He kicked the chair in frustration when he saw me lying on the bed.

"I told you to iron my suit as soon as you returned, didn't I? What, are you throwing a fit because I didn't carry you to the hospital? Why are you being so annoying? Can't you be a bit more mature?"