Happy Divorce, My Husband!

I woke before the birds.

No alarm. No reason. Just the reflex of a woman trained to serve everyone but herself.

No tears. No ache. Just breath. In, out. Hollow.

I wiped my face with a damp cloth. Lip balm. Hair tied low. Not beautiful—just functional. Alive enough to pass.

Then I reached under the bed.

The red suitase was there. I dragged it out, unzipped it two inches. Cash from quiet sales—empanadas, lumpia—no questions asked. Passport, maiden name. A photo of me at eighteen. Smiling. Bold. Untouched by the slow erosion of marriage. I zipped it shut.

Downstairs, the kitchen was still dark. I boiled water, cracked eggs, sliced bread. My hands moved on their own. Stir. Season. Flip. Feed.

I was pouring coffee when I heard them behind me—bare feet against the hardwood. Her giggle first. Then his laugh.

They slid into the kitchen like a couple on a honeymoon. Elizabeth wore one of Edmund’s button-downs, half open. Her legs bare. Hair tousled like she’d just rolled off him, which she probably did. Edmund looked freshly showered, like sex with her was some kind of baptism.

“Coffee, Doris,” she said, yawning like a cat in sunlight. “Make his strong, mine half and half. You know how he likes it.”

I handed them their mugs without a word.

Edmund didn’t even glance at me. Just sipped. Then said, “Bacon and omelet, Doris. Lizzy loves it the way I do. None of that salty mess you used to make. She's watching her figure—not that it shows, huh?”

Elizabeth chuckled and leaned against the counter like she owned it. “Not everyone wants to look like a stick wrapped in sadness, sweetie.”

I smiled. Not out of kindness. Just strategy.

Smile. Just smile. You’ve cooked for enemies before.

I cracked more eggs. Let the oil sizzle. Pretended I didn’t hear them talking about the night. About the penthouse. About how soft the sheets were. About how Edmund snored less when he was “with her.” About how my shampoo made him sneeze. They ate like I was the maid. Talked like I wasn’t real.

Then the front door flung open.

“Family’s here!” Lester’s voice boomed like a sitcom dad. “Let the party begin!”

Loisa followed behind him, heels clicking against the tiles, holding up a new designer purse like it was the Holy Grail. “Mom, look! Elizabeth gave me this! Can you believe it? Real leather! Italian! And these earrings? Gifted. God, she’s such a giver.”

She twirled like a child. Like she didn’t already own closets full of things Lester bought for her. Not that he ever bought me a single scarf.

Behind them, the twins stormed in with that careless energy only teenagers have. Lyle was wearing sunglasses indoors. Nash had something massive covered in brown paper.

Loisa laughed again, too loud. “Didn’t you hear? Lizzie gave us the whole penthouse. We slept like royals. You should’ve seen the tub. Bigger than our bedroom.”

“Oh, and the view,” Lester chimed in, opening a bottle of wine without asking. “From the 36th floor? Breathtaking. Sun hits the windows just right. Like a painting. Like—perfect.”

It was nine in the morning.

Nash and Lyle dragged their ‘surprise’ into the living room and tore off the cover. It was a giant, glossy print of the family, taken at the Luciana Hotel gala. Everyone dressed like aristocrats. Posed like nobility. Elizabeth in the middle. My sons beside her. Edmund’s hand resting on her waist.

I wasn’t in the picture.

“Look, Grandma!” Nash said with a smirk. “Don’t we look like a real family here?”

Lyle added without blinking, “Too bad you weren’t there. Oh wait—yeah. You were left behind. Guess you looked too much like our maid.”

The room exploded with laughter. Even Edmund. Even my son. Even Loisa, wiping tears from her eyes.

Elizabeth just sipped her coffee and said cheerfully, “Don’t worry, Doris. I’ll leave some of my old dresses in your closet. And some perfume. They’re a little tight on me now, but I think you can squeeze in.”

Edmund chuckled, not even looking at me. “You can dress a corpse in Versace—it’s still a corpse. She still smells like disappointment.”

Loisa practically screamed laughing. Nash and Lyle clapped each other like it was a roast battle.

And me?

I picked up their dirty plates. I washed them one by one. I stared out the window at the neighbor’s lemon tree, blooming.

They think this is the end. But they haven’t seen what I look like when I stop begging to belong.

---

That night, when the laughter died and the wine ran out and the house went still, I crept into the living room. I stood there staring at it again.

The portrait. Massive. Hung dead-center in the sala like a crown jewel.

Lester made a whole production out of placing it there. Right above the console table. Right where no one could miss it. Where guests would pause and admire the happy family and say, “What a beautiful household you have.”

A lie, printed in high gloss.

I didn’t even hear Edmund come in until he was behind me.

“What, jealous again?” His voice always sounded rougher when he was bored. “You stare at that thing like it’s gonna cry for you.”

I didn’t answer. What was the point?

He scoffed. “Damn, Doris. If I could turn back time… I swear, I would’ve left your sorry ass back in the province. Should’ve married Elizabeth from the start. She’s better than you in every goddamn way. Classy. Successful. Knows how to run a business. Knows how to shut up.”

I turned away, still quiet.

That’s when he kicked me.

Right in the knee. My leg buckled, and I dropped with a thud I was too tired to even gasp at. The floor met me like an old friend. Cold. Familiar.

The tears came without permission. Warm and humiliating. Not because of the pain. No. I think it was because of the sound of him walking away like I wasn’t even there.

“Enough drama,” he muttered. “You’re too old for this shit.”

Then his phone rang.

I could still hear my breath catching in my chest when he answered it.

The tone of his voice changed instantly. “Hey, baby,” he said, like I wasn’t even on the floor. “Mmm, I missed you already.”

I wiped my face slowly, one sleeve at a time.

His voice dropped into something warm. Giddy. Teenage. “Yeah, yeah, I’m packing. Can’t wait to see you in that bikini again. Damn. This cruise’ll be insane. You and me. Open sea.”