Divorcing My Husband and His Precious First Love

Last year, when I broke a bone and was in the hospital, I said I wanted chicken soup. He told me he'd never cooked a day in his life, and that learning from scratch would take longer than just buying some.

But now, the man who kept himself far from any kitchen was following a video tutorial on his phone, cooking with his own hands—for Lillian.

The smell of chicken soup filled the whole apartment before long.

Cecil ladled out a bowl, sprinkled it with green onion, let it cool to the right temperature, and brought it over to me.

"Doris, have some too, build your strength back up. And tell me how it tastes."

He looked at me, full of expectation.

I didn't touch a drop.

Instead, I pushed the divorce agreement across the table to him again.

His face went black as the bottom of a pot in an instant.

"Doris Henson! Haven't you had enough? I cooked chicken soup for you with my own two hands, and you're still not satisfied?"

I let out a scoff.

This soup was obviously made for Lillian.

Because I never eat green onion.

"Sign it."

Our eyes met, and for no reason he could name, Cecil felt a flicker of unease.

The next second, his phone buzzed.

It was Lillian.

"Cecil, I already apologized to your wife. She had someone push me down the stairs and I didn't even hold it against her—so why is she still having people call me a homewrecker!"

The look Cecil turned on me went sharp as a blade.

He softened his voice to comfort her.

"There, there. I'll make sure she's punished for it!"

His gaze slid down to the divorce agreement. He picked up the pen and signed.

When he was done, he took a photo and sent it to Lillian.

I forced down the corners of my mouth, careful not to let him see that divorce wasn't a punishment to me. It was a gift.

Lillian hung up, thoroughly satisfied.

Cecil grabbed my arm on the spot and marched me straight to the county clerk's office.

"Since divorce is what you want, then I'll grant it!"

Once the paperwork was submitted and the acceptance receipt in hand, he said coldly,

"Thirty days from now. Whoever backs out is a dog!"

I didn't look up. I marked the divorce on my phone calendar, thirty days out.

He glanced over and marked it on his own schedule too.

Then he posted the acceptance receipt to his social media, hit the gas, and was gone.

The moment I stepped out of the clerk's office, a June downpour came out of nowhere.

Soaked through, I stood outside trying to hail a cab for the longest time. Nothing.

All I could do was buy an umbrella at a convenience store and walk through the rain to the nearest subway station.

After a few transfers, I finally made it home—only to slip at the gate of my complex and go down flat on my face.

A security guard I knew heard the thud and hurried out to help me up, asking if I was all right.

Seeing me clutching my stomach, my brow knotted tight, he quickly dug out Cecil's number and called.

"Mr. Gilbert, your wife has taken a fall. It looks pretty bad—"

Cecil laughed under his breath.

"Doris, it's too late to regret it now! We're divorced. If something's really wrong with you, call yourself an ambulance!"

The line went dead.

The guard tried to reassure me.

"Miss Henson, why don't I get you a cab to the hospital to have it looked at?"

I couldn't even straighten up from the pain, so I didn't refuse his kindness.

On the way to the hospital, thanks to Cecil's post, one acquaintance after another kept messaging to lecture me.

【Doris, this time you really are hopelessly in the wrong! Cecil and Lillian are completely innocent—how could you carry on to the point of laying hands on Lillian and even filing for divorce!】

【You'd better go smooth things over with Cecil, fast, or there's no taking the arrow back once it's loosed. Divorce for real and you'll have nowhere left to cry!】

……

A whole crowd of them, blaming me for pushing things too far.

My belly ached so badly I just ignored every one of them.

The moment I reached the hospital, my mother-in-law called too, opening with a scolding.

"Doris, what is the matter with you? You're nearly thirty. Instead of trying to conceive, you spend your days sulking and picking jealous fights and threatening divorce. Do you truly not want this marriage anymore?"